Are We Having Fun Yet?, a supernatural fanfic

Title: Are We Having Fun Yet?
Author: HigherMagic
Pairings: Meg!Dean/Castiel, Sam/Dean (sorta-kinda-not-really), Castiel/Balthazar (allusions), Michael/Lucifer, Dean/Castiel (final pairing), Sam/Gabriel (final pairing)
Rating: NC-17 (like woah)
Word Count: 23,669 (Holy Crap .)
Spoilers: Up until 6x09/6x10, and then I start changing things.
Summary: Desperate times call for desperate measures, and this applies to Demons, Angels and humankind all equally. Demons just have a way of being a teensy bit more persuasive.
Warnings: Language, Sex, Dub-con/Non-con, Meg!Dean, Character Death (of some pretty major ones), Resurrection, Flimsy storylines, Angst, Heartbreak, Torture, Violence, Gore…I think that's all?
Notes: This was for my flist, that lovely epic!smush!fic with all the comments. Here's what I received, and boy let me tell you – I had some trouble at first with all these things, unable to FATHOM how I would be able to cram all these things together, but I think I managed it :D

Here are the simplified prompts I got; Lots of angst and heartbreak, Sam/Gabriel, Dean/Castiel, Alternate realities, Porn, Centaur!Sam/Dean, Mythological!Dean, Meg!Dean/top!Cas, dub-con, "Thanks for the ride, Clarence.", Vampire!Dean or Werewolf!Dean, Meg using Alistair skills on Balthazar, Wing!kink, Tail!kink.

*collapses and whimpers in submission of her Muse* It's done, it's finally done… *curls into a ball*

Beta'd by the lovely earth_heart who is the best LJ twin EVAR. I LOVES ON YOU BENNY. xD

"Sammy!" Dean turns, aims, fires, but he's a fraction too late and the werewolf launches towards him, knocking the gun out of his hands. Dean just manages to yank on his silver hunting knife and slash wildly towards the creature, and it howls, shying back, wound on its chest sizzling as he snarls, grabbing at the wound. Blood leaks out, coating its fingers as it tries to hold its blood in. It isn't long before the beast is coming at him again, and damn it – where is Sam?

"Sam! Come on!" he yells, getting frustrated now as he jabs at the attacker again, trying to keep it at bay. His back is against a tree and he's cornered – there's more coming at him out of the corner of his eye and he's outnumbered, exhausted from the hunt and the fight and there's just no way he's getting out of this one with his skin.

There's a growl at his ear and he turns just in time for another wolf to get its arms around him, snarling into his ear as its sharp claws dig into his torso, and he cries out as it rips at his chest, tearing his shirt apart and causing blood to start seeping out of his skin. In the flash of pain he drops his knife, and the other werewolves are on him immediately, clawing at his body, and he's sure for a moment that they're going to rip him limb from limb.

Then, there's a howl. It's loud and haunting and almost plaintive and it makes the wolves still for a moment, baring their extra set of teeth and staring at each other with eyes that are all pupil, only thin rings of color around the edge, dilated from bloodlust. The one at Dean's front – a male that couldn't be more than twenty years old – growls again, obviously the leader, and the rest of them subside somewhat. The howl fades and they growl at each other, and Dean knows they're talking, but he can't think past the throbbing pain in his head and the bright shards of agony in his chest – with every sluggish beat of his heart he can feel blood dripping down his chest, knows he'll bleed out in a matter of seconds.

The wolf that's behind him suddenly grabs at him and he gasps, too tired to even think about fighting back, and he's being dragged through the woods suddenly. Branches and leaves catch on his face and body but he doesn't even have the energy to brush them away – the wolf has a tight grip around his shoulders, dragging him like he's already a dead body, and he watches as the headlights of the Impala and the moonlight shining on the open air fades away, replaced with the dark shadows of the overhanging tree branches, thick with foliage and standing out against the even blacker night sky. The only glimpses of light he sees are the flashes of the wolves' eyes as they follow him, and the only sound is his body crashing through the undergrowth and the muffled growls of his pursuers.

He must have lost consciousness, because when he wakes up again there's a thin light of dawn just hanging over the trees now, and he's in a clearing. There's the soft trickle of water nearby and Dean's nose is filled with the scent of blood, sweat and mulch. He coughs, the sound coming out wet as he spits out blood, finding it flooding his mouth, and he rolls over so that he doesn't suffocate himself, feeling the burn of aching muscles and the sharp pain in his entire body. He feels like he's gone a round with a combine harvester, and lost.

He stills at the sound of growling, and groans again, knowing he's not out of the woods yet, so to speak.

"We have to do it now. There's not much time left."

"He's too weak, he won't make it."

"Boss' orders."

Then Dean's being manhandled suddenly, turned forcefully onto his back again and the action causes him to choke on the beginnings of new blood again. He tries to get his eyes open but honestly, he can't – he doesn't have the energy; he's too tired.

There's a warm body on top of him and he tries to move his arms, arching his back – something, anything, to get them off again – but the weird is too heavy and he thinks there might be someone holding his limbs down too. It feels like he's just been torn apart by Hell hounds again only worse because he's actually alive to feel himself die – his soul's still firmly wrapped up in his skin.

"Brace yourself, Hunter," a smoky voice whispers in his ear, and Dean's eyelids flutter open before there's a sharp pain in his neck. It's strong and it's sudden and it hurts, like having acid get poured into an open wound. Dean cries out, pain giving him strength to fight but not enough – he can't throw off the werewolves holding him down or dislodge the one that is biting into his neck, and he manages to make the connection through his dimly working brain that he has been bitten. The werewolves are going to change him.

He wants to fight, to reach for his gun or his knife despite the fact that neither of them are on his body, but he can't. He feel so tired – it almost seems stupid that the wolves are trying to change him because he will probably be dead before they finish the job, and he can feel his eyelids falling closed. The pain in his neck grows exponentially for a brief moment before it's gone, teeth withdrawing and a low growl in his ear.

"Is he dead?"

"Not yet."

More hands drag him away from the open air, towards the base of a tree. Distantly he can hear growling and voices but it's negligible under the roar of blood in his ears and the deafening beat of his heart. His head lolls to the side as he coughs up more blood, and he can feel yet more still leaking down his neck out of the gaping bite wound. He's going to die and he's in so much pain and sleep sounds like a really good idea right now.

"What now?"

"Just gotta leave him."

"Hey…what's that?"

"What's -?"

"-the fuck?"

There's panic, then. Even from Dean's fuzzy perspective he can taste it in the air, along with blood and sweat and earth. He tries to suck in a breath and get the energy to turn his head and see what's happening but instead of air coming into his lungs, there's just blood. He's going to choke to death on his own blood and he really doesn't want to die that way – he's already done it once, thank you.

There's the sound of crashing, and cries, and a soft whimper and whine, and then silence. Everything is deathly silent, like the calm before the storm. The only sound is Dean himself, coughing and trying to drag in breaths around crimson.

Stupid Hunter, a playful voice taunts in his ear. Dean's too tired to open his eyes and see if he's just imagining it. Always getting yourself into trouble, Dean-o.

Sensation returns like a bright light and a foghorn after sensory deprivation, as Dean's mouth is forced open and something is poured down his throat. He can't make his muscles move to swallow, and while the substance is thick, it's not solid enough to try and chew, and it feels like he's swallowing more blood, but it doesn't taste like blood. It tastes like rotten eggs and like volcanic ash (not that's Dean's ever tasted it, but you can imagine), and he chokes around it, trying to force it back out, but the weird liquid keeps on coming. He feels himself getting stronger, feels his body start to have energy again to move and to breathe, to keep on living, and he's not sure he wants to fight back but he's not really commanding the ship right now. The substance pools, thick and heavy like a coiled snake in his gut and it suddenly starts to burn, spreading out through all parts of his body, and Dean screams, screams like he never has before on Earth, and clenches his eyes tightly shut, gritting his teeth, fists against his temples. He feels like his body is about to spontaneously combust, like he's just been lit on fire and it's expanding, growing, black and red inside of him and –

It stops, very suddenly. Dean can't move, can't feel a thing. He wonders briefly if he's finally kicked the bucket. For good, this time.

His eyes flicker open, but not of his own accord. He looks around and the world seems different – it's blacker than before, yellow and red and purple as well like seeing in infra-red. He knows then that he's not dead because the world doesn't look any different to dead people.

The bodies of his captors are littered all over the ground. There were ten of them and they all have their throats cut now. Dean stands up, putting his hands to his body and looking down, and still sees their gashes all over him. His entire torso looks like he's made good friends with a cheese grater – there are three long lines down from his left shoulder to his hip, slashing the anti-possession tattoo three ways, and several more scratches and bruises litter his torso. Dean presses a hand to them and all of them heal, becoming scars. He then touches his neck and his fingertips come away bloody. Chucking his shirt off, he follows the sound of the running water and finds a little pool. He feels like he's in a trance, moving without thinking about it – maybe he's in shock. He doesn't know – he doesn't know what being in shock feels like. Never had the luxury.

He kneels down, bending over the pool to see his distorted reflection. He looks normal – a little dirty from being dragged through the mud but otherwise unharmed. The only thing that's out of place is the giant bite on the side of his neck. When he touches it, pain flashes through him and he gasps, the black substance in his body shifting to overcome some other influence inside of him, and when he stops touching it the blackness triumphs and lies dormant all over again.

He tries to open his mouth and to speak, but he can't. He starts to feel panic but his face shows no outward sign of being afraid. Instead, his reflection slowly begins to smile, and Dean sees, watching in absolute horror, his eyes turn completely black.

Oh God.

"Guess again, Dean-o."

The voice. It's his voice, it's using his mouth to speak, but it's not him. It's…the blackness surges up once more, becomes lodged in Dean's mind and pushes him back, taking control of his body completely. Dean cries out in alarm but his body makes no sound, just keeps smiling, and stands, dusting himself off.

Who are you?

Dean pouts. "Don't you recognize me?" he says in a light, lilting, kind of whiny tone that Dean would recognize anywhere, and dread begins to coil low in his gut.

I thought you were dead.

"You thought wrong," Meg says, smiling even wider using Dean's skin, and traces Dean's cheek with a finger, turning his face this way and that, admiring her new meat suit. "I have to say, you've been taking very good care of yourself, Dean-o. This body feels…" She smirks. "Well, heavenly."

Get out of my skin, bitch, Dean growls, trying to fight back against the press of blackness around his mind. He doesn't get far before Meg pushes him back.

"Aww, but we're just going to have some fun," she says, pouting again before smiling, putting her hands on her hips. "After all, I've got some plans. Some fun plans." She turns around and walks back to the edge of the clearing, finding Dean's shed t-shirt and leather jacket and putting the jacket on, leaving the shredded shirt behind. "And they're not gonna act out themselves."

You won't be able to keep this up, Dean says, unnerved by the fact that he can't fight back for control of his body, that he's either too weak or too tired to overcome her. Sam and Cas will recognize you for who and what you are. You won't be able to stay in me for long.

Meg laughs, and it sounds so wrong coming out of Dean that the Hunter shudders inside his own mind, even more so when she reaches the Impala and gets in the car, running her hands all over his Baby's seats and steering wheel, getting mud everywhere. "Don't worry, baby," she purrs, turning on the engine, "I won't need to."

Meg stops Dean's car off at a gas station off the highway, pouting a little, pursing Dean's lips as she tries searching her pockets and then around the Impala. "Dean-o? Where's your phone?" she asks sweetly, batting Dean's eyelashes even though there's no one to see her do it.

Up your ass, bitch, Dean snaps back.

She giggles, the sound coming out rough and growly in Dean's voice. "Um, sweetheart? I think that makes it your ass. Which -." She leans to one side, looking down the long stretch of Dean's body, running a hand up his thigh and giving his thigh a good squeeze. "Is mighty fine, if I do say so myself. Given it up to your Angel yet?" As she asks this, she continues her search of Dean's cell phone, seeing as she hadn't found it in the clearing or around where Dean was caught, so it had to be in here somewhere.

Dean goes very quiet inside his head for a while. You're full of shit, he finally says, but there's not as much heat as before, and Meg smirks when she realizes she's struck a nerve.

"What is it? Shy?" She giggles again. "You're not a virgin back there, are you Dean?" Again, Dean is silent and Meg practically squeals with glee, both over this new information and the fact that she finally has found Dean's phone, buried under the gun in the glove compartment and the fake ID badges. "Well, that just won't do. Backdoor sex is fantastic, Dean-o, trust me – especially for guys," she purrs, opening the phone and scrolling through the latest calls.

Listen, I might not be able to get you out right now, but I will eventually and if you do anything in my meat I will make sure your death is slow, painful and very, very final, Dean growls, but the warning falls flat, as his essence inside his mind makes no actual move to try and overcome Meg again. He's biding his time like a good Hunter; feeling out the competition before making his move.

Meg purses her lips again, tossing her head to move her hair back only to realize that Dean doesn't actually have hair long enough to get in her way. It's a weird feeling. "Oh, that reminds me," she says, blinking into the rear-view mirror for a moment before she smiles, and starts rolling up the arm of Dean's jacket. Dean can feel her other hand start to burn hot.

What…what are you doing? Dean asks, wary, fearful.

Meg smiles, pressing her burning fingertip to the pale, sensitive skin below Dean's elbow on his forearm. The skin smokes and starts to bubble around her touch as she curves her finger, digging in her nail so blood flows out as well, welling up around her finger, and Dean would be screaming if he could, because it hurts, and he can feel the blackness of Meg's essence sealing itself to his body through that spot, as she draws the same sigil on his skin that Sam had when Meg had possessed him. Sealing herself inside his body.

Dean mentally bangs his head against the steering wheel. He's in deep shit now.

"By the way, Dean-o, you should think about if getting me out is really what you want," Meg says lightly, her eyes gone black now and meeting Dean's eyes through the rear view mirror, which she angles so that Dean can see his own eyes – black, demon's eyes that he hoped he'd never see again since that dream-turned-nightmare.

Dean growls. And why wouldn't I want you out? he asks, taking the bait because it's not like he has anything better to do except ride this out for now. Normally he'd be fighting tooth and nail, but now he's just screwed himself over and he knows Meg's stuck inside of him until that sigil's broken. It's not so much frightening as frustrating, trying to get muscles that have always obeyed him to move and finding a roadblock there.

"Because," Meg purrs, smiling Dean's charming smile – the one he uses when seducing – "You've been bitten." She traces Dean's hand over the bite mark on his neck, and that. That, Dean definitely feels – a lightning shock of pain curling low in his gut. It makes him hiss and withdraw. "You're a werewolf, infected, and I'm the only thing keeping the transformation happening. Without me, you'll turn, and there ain't no cure for becoming Fido. You'll probably get shot before you can fully turn."

Dean swallows – except he doesn't – because he knows that Meg is right.

What do you want from me? he whispers.

Meg's smile brightens. "I knew I'd get you to come around." She selects Castiel's number from Dean's phone, holding it to her ear as she coaxes the Impala out of the gas station and back onto the highway. "Well, eventually I want someone's head on a stick. But until then? …I wanna have some fun."

What do demons do for fun?

Meg just smiles.

"Oh, poo," Meg says in a whiney voice, snapping Dean's phone shut after calling Castiel for the seventh time. "No answer."

Castiel doesn't answer phones much anymore, Dean says, unable to hide the morose tone in his voice.

Meg smirks. "You miss your boyfriend, Dean-o?" she teases lightly, changing lanes on the highway to take the next exit. She doesn't care where she's going for now – she has to plan for a little bit and then she'll be golden to set said plan into action.

He's not my boyfriend, Dean snaps, his essence shifting a little inside his mind while the blackness instinctively tenses up in case of a sudden fight – although that would be stupid because now Meg's trapped herself in the body and therefore even if Dean did take back control again, he couldn't do it for long and it wouldn't get him anywhere in the long run. And don't you go anywhere near him, bitch.

"Words hurt, you know," Meg replies, smiling a little as she pulls into another service station. Although demons don't need to eat, they are gluttonous (hello, demons) and Meg fully intended to use this body to its full potential. She fished a new shirt out of Dean's duffle bag and shrugged it on, and it clung to Dean's body, at least one size too small. She giggles. "Why do you still have stuff like this?"

Dean doesn't answer.

Meg purses her lips, admiring Dean's reflection the glass windows of the car. "Although, with a body this fine, I wouldn't mind flaunting it either." Again, Dean doesn't say anything, but his essence does shift a little, tense and wary. "Maybe you like getting a little attention from the other side of the tracks?"

Fuck you, Dean growls, sounding horrified with what she's suggesting. Clothes are bought to go a long way when you have next to no money. It's an old one.

"Pity," Meg says, thumbing around Dean's lips for a moment, tugging on the bottom one and watching as it gets just a little bit redder, and Dean shudders, able to feel her touch on his skin but unable to do anything about it. "The boy toy thing made you so much more interesting."

The only thing that keeps Dean silent is the knowledge that Meg could very easily change the rules of this game. He doesn't want the demon deciding that whoring his body out with her inside would be a good time for her. So he stays quiet, tense in the corner of his mind like a wild animal in a cage.

Dean's phone starts going off as soon as Meg closes the door, and she fishes it out of Dean's pocket, but not before – Hands to yourself, bitch! Dean growls when her hand starts to get a little too friendly in his pocket.

She giggles and answers the phone. "Sam?" she says, putting concern and urgency into her voice. Dean wants to scream that it's not him, but of course he can't.

"Dean. Where the hell are you? You just went AWOL after those werewolves and – just, Jesus, where are you?"

"I'm at a service station right now, somewhere…I think I'm near Detroit. Honestly? I have no freaking clue where I am, Sammy. I mean…" She hesitates, giving a self-deprecating chuckle and running Dean's hand through his hair. "The last thing I remember was being dragged away by those dicks, and then I woke up in my car, good as new."

Dean's aware, because Meg is aware, of a bunch of heavy set truckers watching Meg talking on the phone, and shivers with revulsion, because he knows that look. Knows it because he's given it and had it be given to him. That's the look of someone who wants to eat you alive.

"…Really?" Sam's voice is low with suspicion and disbelief.

"Yeah, Sam." Meg makes Dean sigh. "I don't know what to tell you."

"Alright, listen, can you come back now? Cas says he might have a lead on my soul and you seem to be the one most invested in this so…"

Dean feels a flash of anger and annoyance at Sam's cavalier attitude to his own soul, and Meg uses that, channels it into Dean's voice when she replies; "Um…Right. Sure. Where are you?"

"At the base of Mount Pleasant." Meg gives a little snort at the name. "Yeah, I know. Okay, so I'll see you in a day or so?"

"I'll be there ASAP," Meg replies cheerily, snapping the phone shut and then sauntering into the service station.

Dean doesn't approve; Stop being so…feminine. God, you're going to get us snatched and dumped or something. And shouldn't we be leaving now?

"All in good time, Dean-o," Meg mutters, too softly for anyone else to hear as she peruses through the station's collection of chips and beer. She smiles a little, grabbing a six pack of the first thing she finds appealing and a giant bag of Ruffles, setting them at the register.

The person behind the register raises an eyebrow. "You planning on drinking tonight?" he asks in a bored voice, eyeing the six pack.

Meg makes Dean's shoulders shrug and sticks his hands in his front pockets – which Dean does not approve as well. "No sir, just visiting people and you need beer when you go to someone's house." She flashes Dean's mischievous smile – the one he uses for old ladies and people he needs to charm – and the employee flushes a little, ringing up the items. Meg pays and leaves.

You love this, don't you? Dean growls, his stomach roiling at the idea of eating that entire bag of Ruffles – he was never fond of them. He's also getting a little nervous about the truckers hanging out by the gas pumps because they're still eyeing him, and he really hopes Meg wants to get to Sam and Castiel as soon as possible, and doesn't have time to play.

Meg senses his anxiety and giggles, the sound coming out so wrong with Dean's voice – too low to pull it off. "Don't worry, baby," she says, getting back into the Impala and turning the key, listening to the lovely purr of the car's engine for a moment; "We're saving this fine ass for someone special. Go to sleep now, m'kay?"

How am I supposed to -? Dean doesn't get the change to finish the question before the blackness of Meg's essence converges on him, smothers him inside his own mind. It's the mental equivalent of someone choking you until you black out.

Castiel recognizes the darkness in Dean straight away when the man arrives, caked in dried mud but smiling like he's just gotten out of prison – Dean wakes up in his own mind to find himself pinned against a wall, unable to move (though he couldn't anyway), with Castiel's outstretched hand at throat height, fingers just barely curling and Dean can feel the pressure of them around his neck.

Sam's just watching, but there's a furrow in his brow that says he knows he should probably be reacting to this sight.

What's going on? Dean asks Meg, uneasy inside his mind, afraid that Castiel might just try and rip the darkness out of him. He doesn't know how successful he'll be with that sigil on his arm and he's afraid – he knows better than anyone how victims of exorcisms don't always survive.

Cas wouldn't risk that, though, right?

I'm thinking, Meg snaps back, curling Dean's hands into fists, clenching his jaw as she fights back against the Angel's hold. "Cas," she says, voice hoarse and tight, "what the hell?"

To her credit, she can play Dean perfectly – from the inflections in his voice to the way his expression carefully shows confused outrage and fear – she's got him pegged. Dean can see she's at least fooling Sam. Then again, Sam's gotten worse at understanding Dean since he lost his soul, unable to decipher why or how his brother will reach the conclusions he does, or react the way he does.

Sam's eyes track to Castiel, who is still watching Dean with wary, cold eyes. "Um, Cas? What are you doing?" he asks hesitantly, well aware of how his and Castiel's last conversation had gone and how he and the Angel were on unsteady foundations.

"This thing is too dark to be Dean," Castiel mutters in reply. "It's not him."

"Of course it's me!" Meg growls through Dean, fists clenching a little harder. "Listen, okay, so I might have…been a little vague about what happened – but listen. I kind of…the werewolves kind of…got me."

Sam and Castiel both go still at that. "What do you mean 'Got you'?" Sam asks slowly.

Meg tries to turn Dean's head to one side but Castiel's grip holds firm, and she gasps around her exhale, feeling his fingers tighten a little when she tries to move. "They bit me," she confesses finally, and Castiel's eyes go wide, hand dropping in shock. Meg lets Dean's body drop, sliding against the wall until his ass hits the floor, and he grunts, gritting his teeth against the sharp pain that lances up his spine on impact.

When Meg turns Dean's eyes upwards, Castiel's looking at Dean like he just told him he's dying. The Angel's eyes are a complex mix of blues, dark with sorrow and wariness, and there's a furrow in his brow that shows his concern, and Dean can tell he's already thinking of a way to get Dean out of this.

"The full moon's just gone," Sam whispers. "You shouldn't change tonight, but we'll hold you down. We can figure out a way to get you out of this."

Dean's eyes don't leave Castiel's, and Dean can tell Meg is putting that hopeless puppy dog expression in them that Dean never even tries to pull off anymore. He can tell it breaks Castiel's Grace to see it and the Angel nods once, stiffly, and Dean sighs, getting to his feet.

"You said you had a lead on Sam's soul," Meg says, brushing Dean off, and the Hunter shudders as her – his – hands go a little too close to personal for a casual touch. She loves this and it makes him hate her all the more.

Castiel nodded again. "I believe that there is someone who will be able to help us." The Angel sighs. "There are very few people I would trust with something like this, and unfortunately, the only person that I know would be able to get into the Cage and retrieve Sam's soul is dead. However, I believe that there is a tool in Heaven's possession that would allow us to form a temporary weakness in the cage for me to get through and retrieve Sam's soul."

Meg raises Dean's eyebrow. "Who?" he asks.

Blue eyes flash his way. "Gabriel would have been able to do it," he says solemnly, "but he is not here. The tool I'm speaking of was stolen sometime during the last year, so I believe I know who would be able to help us locate it."

"Balthazar." Sam's voice is flat, deadpan. Dean heartily adds his own feelings to that – he doesn't like Balthazar and doesn't feel the need to pretend he does. Not with Meg controlling his face.

Castiel just nods and Meg lets out a frustrated breath, channeling Dean's anger and hatred of that Angel, she snaps out; "No. We don't need that dick, alright? We'll find another way around it."

"Dean." Castiel just says that one word, but that's all he needs to say. Although physically Dean doesn't stand down, what with Meg holding the reigns and all, his essence inside his mind does curl up a little bit – he's never been good at dealing with that tone in Castiel's voice – so tired, so defeated and exasperated and it's just so human, that it takes Dean by surprise every time.

But Meg holds firm, because summoning Balthazar doesn't hold up with her plans. "What do you think he'll do, huh, Cas?" she asks, making Dean's voice lower as she steps forward, advancing on the Angel. "Just smile and say 'Sure, buddy', and hand it over? These things are his life now. He's not going to give us a hand out of the kindness of his tiny heart, just because you guys have history." Meg spits the word, and Dean hates how he kind of agrees with the emotions she's putting into his voice. Hates how he likes the fact that Meg's brought his body so much closer to Castiel's, can see the different nuances of blue in the Angel's eyes and can feel his exhale on his skin. He doesn't have control over his body but he's alight with the sensations – can feel everything as though it were him controlling his body.

"Balthazar would be willing to help us for something like this," Castiel argues softly, his eyes fixed on Dean's unflinchingly and Dean's glad for Meg's possession somewhat, because it means he doesn't have a choice about looking away. "He would help us."

"'Cause you were a booty call before he faked his own death?" Meg makes Dean snap, and Dean flinches at the tone, roiling in anger at the words that Meg is putting into his mouth, and Castiel looks angry – like, smite-worthy angry and he really hopes Meg knows what she's doing because she's making Dean into a sitting duck and it would just suck if she got them killed.

The silence is so tense you could cut it, and so absolute that even the sound of Dean's heartbeat is muted to him. He is only aware of Castiel, how warm he is, how close he is and how, with just a touch, Castiel could kill him and Meg in one shot.

"I will let that go," Castiel says softly, words dripping aggression, "because you are not in your right mind. But know this, Dean – I will not let you speak of me or my Brothers in such a way again." His eyes glow for the briefest moment and he leans forward, and Dean swears he's about to kiss him, and then the moment has passed and Castiel turns back to look at Sam. "I will be back when I hear something," he says, and then he's gone.

Sam fixes Dean with a look. "What was that about?" he asks, smirking a little and Dean bristles at it. Meg, however, just makes him smile in a self-deprecating way and shrug, rubbing the back of his head.

"Nothing. I'm gonna go shower – I have wolf stink all over me."

Oh hell no, I am not showering with you in my head, Dean growls.

You don't have a choice, Dean-o. "Go get food, will ya, Sammy? And bring pie."

"…Sure, Dean."

Don't touch me. Don't do it, Dean growls in warning, pushing against the black wall of Meg's demon essence, and recoils at the feeling of oil and grease that he comes back with whenever he tries. Everything about Meg repulses him and he hates that she's inside of him. How Sam could have been ignorant (if he ever was) that there was a demon inside of him, Dean would never know.

Meg giggles, shrugging off Dean's shirt and jacket and letting it fall to the floor. She trails Dean's hands over his forearms, tracing the thin blue veins on the inside of his elbow and Dean shudders with revulsion at her sulfurous touch.

Please, he begs as she guides his body into the bathroom, shedding his jeans and underwear along the way and turns on the hot water, letting the bathroom fog up from it. The water will be too hot – Dean knows this – but it won't affect her. He'll be the one getting the hurt from it.

"I'm surprised you figured it out so quickly," Meg comments lightly, stepping into the burning hot water, and Dean hisses when the too-hot water kisses his skin, almost to the point of burning, it's so hot, and Dean for the first time ever curses the fact that this motel is actually quite nice and therefore will have more than five minutes hot water in it. "You see, Dean-o, when Angels inhabit a body, it's different. There's less balance – an Angel takes over very completely and keeps the human in a lovely cocoon of non-awareness." She trails Dean's hands over his head, slicking his hair back, and down the back of his neck. Dean wants to shy away from the touch but he can't – she's everywhere. "But with demons…well, we're nicer. You get to feel. You get to be aware. And we put up with you, because we're nice like that." She reaches across to the corner of the shower and Dean hisses as the water falls over his back, down his neck where the fresh bite is, and it burns. He feels like he's sweating under the shower water. "So all these physical reactions? They're actually all you. All the pain and all the pleasure, that's all humans talking."

There's no escape from her hands when she grabs the shampoo bottle, pouring a generous amount onto Dean's palm, and then proceeds to lather it into his hair. The touch is so foreign that it's like someone else is doing it and that just adds a whole new level of intimacy and sensation to it, and Dean wants to curl up into a ball, feels like dying when he feels his body respond to the touches and the way the shampoo runs down his back and over his shoulders, washed away by the burning water, and he shivers when Meg trails one hand downwards, digging his nails into the broken seal of his anti-possession tattoo, and then she drags his hand, wrapping it around his hardening cock, and Dean feels it all.

Stop, please, Dean whispers, no heat in his voice, and he wants to close his eyes and Meg won't let him – forces him to watch as she makes him pleasure himself. He fights against it – of course he does. He doesn't want this bitch inside of him and, binding sigil or not, he's not going to let her use him as a puppet forever. He'd wanted to bide his time and see what she wanted, but there are lines and she's crossing them.

His efforts get him nowhere. He can't help it – she's good. Fucking good. Too fucking good, as she tightened his hand on the upstroke, twisting at the head, thumbing at that spot that makes Dean shudder and moan behind the black wall of her.

He twists away, trying to fight it, but all he's feeling is sensation with no control.

Meg laughs. "You're so pathetic," she whispers, bracing herself with Dean's other forearm against the shower wall, scalding water washing the last of the suds from his back and hair, turning his skin red. "Getting off with a demon inside of you? Tut tut, Dean-o – I didn't know you were so dirty." She giggles again, tossing hair back that isn't there. "And while lusting after that Angel too…"

Dean stills at that. I don't know what you're talking about, he says slowly, tensely, and he's a crappy liar when it's just him inside his shell with no control, no body language to back him up.

"Oh please," she purrs, thumbing along the slit again and Dean hisses when she picks up the pace, pooling some more water in Dean's hand before using the slick for a smoother glide along Dean's shaft, and it jerks in his hand. "I may be keeping the wolf part of you down, but it's not out. We could smell your pheromones a mile away."

Dean's not sure what she means by 'we', and he doesn't want to know.

"We could have some fun," she whispers, smiling widely as she stares down at the shower drain, watches almost mesmerized as the water swirls and disappears down it, carrying the bubbles too. "Just you, me and that Angel." The blackness in Dean's mind shivers a little and another spike of arousal shocks through Dean, this time from her, and Dean whimpers as he feels himself come, broken by his orgasm as he spills into Meg's – his – hand, and watches as it joins the water too, running down the drain. "Like that idea, Dean?"

No. Don't. Dean feels like he can't breathe even though his body is outwardly unchanged. He feels like he's been shaken down to his very core, getting off on a demon's touch and unable to do anything about it. Don't touch him.

"How noble," Meg spits, shutting the water off after another cursory wipe-down of Dean's body. "I'd almost listen if I didn't already know you're just doing it for selfish reasons. You don't want to share," she sing-songs, toweling Dean's body dry, being extra attentive around Dean's still-sensitive cock, and the Hunter hisses at the callous touch of the towel, wanting to shy away from it. "And you definitely don't want to share him with me."

He'd never do it anyway, Dean snaps. Castiel doesn't…do that. Doesn't think like that.

Meg raises Dean's eyebrow, pursing his lips. "Really? Care to place a bet on that?" she asks, combing Dean's fingers through his hair as she goes over to his dirty jeans, fishing out his cell phone. "One call, I bet I can have him down here. What do you say, Dean?"

No – don't call him. For fuck's sake, leave us alone! The fight in Dean is back, now, and he's pushing against Meg with all his might, but it's getting him shit-all.

"So, so weak," Meg says lightly, scrolling through the contacts before she reaches 'Cas'. "It's too bad I don't care one way or another what you say. You know – I think you've said this before, Dean-o – no one should die a virgin."

No, no, please, no… Dean begs, screams, revolts inside his own head as Meg listens to the rhythmic ringing of Castiel's phone on the other end of the line, pursing his lips as she waits, but Castiel doesn't pick up. She sighs when she gets the machine, folding Dean's arms over his chest and staring at the phone.

"Maybe Heaven has bad reception," she concedes with a little smirk, closing the phone and tossing it away. She then goes to the edge of one of the beds in the motel room, having sent Sam out for food when she knows that the closest place is all the way over in the next town. He'll be gone for a while. She closes her eyes.

What are you doing? Dean asks warily.

"What does it look like? I'm praying," she quips back, smiling a little, and then starts; "Hey, Cas? Dean here." She channels Dean's emotions, rubbing the back of his head, smiling down at his lap, fingers threading together. "Listen, I acted like an ass, and I know that, and…eesh, I mean…can we just talk for a second? Like…Mano-y…Angel-o?"

Dean has to admit – she's good at playing him. He shifts angrily inside his mind, almost too in shock over what she's actually proposing to do that he can't even form words right now. Except… At least dress me a little. Please.

Meg rolls her eyes. "Fine," she snaps, and then pulls on a clean pair of underwear onto Dean's body, waistline falling nicely under the jut of Dean's hip.

Not exactly what I had in mind…

It's this or nothing, Meg replies, in Dean's head because Castiel – much to the Hunter's surprise – has shown up now.

The Angel's face is impassive, and Meg and Dean both notice the little flash of Grace in his eyes when he sees Dean's half-naked state, and the demon doesn't miss the way his eyes wander, just for the briefest of seconds, up and down Dean's body. It's enough of a window for Meg to want to smile.

"What is it you wanted to talk about?" Castiel asks stiffly, straightening himself when he meets Dean's eyes and finds himself caught while looking. If he were human and in less control of his body and over his body's reactions, he'd be blushing and avoiding Dean's eyes. But he's not.

Meg, for once, takes a bit of a back seat in Dean's head, letting the other thing come out to play. She's still controlling the words, but everything else? – Scent, Body language – that's all animal now. The animal side of Dean that came to be when he'd been bitten, she's letting it out to play now, and it feels so crowded inside his own head, and Dean's trying, realizing just exactly what's about to happen, and he's trying to fight back and overcome it – but it was hard enough trying to fight Meg out. He can't do that to something that he is now. Through the bite and the sigil, these two forms of darkness became a part of him and he can't fight them out any more than he could fight out the human side of himself.

"I just…" Dean smiles, stepping forward a little, his expression shaky around the edges, fingers fidgeting nervously like he's some Goddamn schoolgirl telling her crush she likes him for the first time. Castiel watches as the Hunter comes closer, not moving forward, but not leaning away either. "Listen, I wanted to apologize for my…for what I said, earlier. I was out of line."

He's very close to Castiel now, and the Angel takes a deep breath, surprised at the scent in the room – Dean smells like an animal, which makes sense, but it still startles Castiel somewhat. The Angel clenches his jaw, because despite the situation he's grateful that Dean apologized.

"Forgive me?" Dean asks hopefully, biting his lower lip hard enough to make it redden, and Castiel can't help it – his eyes lock onto the action, and he takes a quick, startled breath at the sharp pang of arousal that stirs deep in his gut just from watching Dean bite his lip. Even more so when Dean does it again, and the scent of pheromones and arousal in the air is getting almost suffocating.

"Of course," Castiel replies, on autopilot because of course he will always forgive Dean. He's in way too deep to do anything otherwise. The Angel clears his throat, swallowing, and looks down, unable to hold Dean's gaze – except that was a stupid thing to do because it just allows him a good look at Dean's chest, golden skin stretched over smooth, hard muscle, and – Castiel eyes narrow as he sees the scars from the werewolf claws, and reaches forward without thinking, trailing his hands over the thin white lines.

Dean shivers, and that reaction is all him, and he's ashamed of it. Well, Hunter, in for a penny and all that. You sure about this? Meg taunts, knowing that it doesn't matter what Dean says – she's having too much fun with this, because this, this is like Christmas come early, finding the opportunity to fuck up such a 'profound bond'.

Who knows? Maybe she'll indulge herself and do it several times before dropping the bomb.

No! Dean's started to fight again now, battling earnestly against Meg's control over his body, but it's not enough – he's too weak, too fucking weak. He'd be ashamed if he wasn't so horrified, so afraid over what Meg'll do next. Please, he begs brokenly, please, no.

I'm not hearing a 'No'…

I just said it, you bitch! Dean lashes out again, and hisses when Meg's essence turns sharp, impatient, in no mood for more of his bullshit. I'll kill you – I swear to God I'll kill you myself – I'll rip you out of my Goddamn meat and I'll… Dean trails off, panic making his words run dry, and he tries to remember the words of an exorcism – any exorcism – but he can't, because he doesn't pay attention to shit like that - that's Sam's area, not his. He's more of the sigil/weapons man.

Castiel's eyes have gone back to Dean's now, and the Angel's biting his lip too, mimicking Dean, and Meg makes him smile, raising Dean's hand to cover Castiel's. "It feels good when you touch me, Cas," he whispers, voice low and husky like when he's whispering into a woman's ear at a bar – some women have gotten off on his voice alone, and from the way Castiel stiffens, jaw clenching, a soft sound escaping him that Dean wouldn't hear if he were human, but with Meg inside of him, he does – she figures Castiel's no different.

She makes Dean smile a little wider, softening his eyes and his voice. "Cas…stay with me a while," he murmurs, tugging on the Angel's hand and leading him back towards Dean's bed, and Castiel seems to shocked to do anything but follow. "I want to make it up to you, and I want to…damn it, Cas, I just – I feel like such an ass, getting jealous over this…thing you have with Balthazar…"

That's not true, Dean shouts; It's not true!

Oh yes, it is, Dean-o. It's a sad day when a demon's more honest than you are.

It's not true…

"You are jealous?" Castiel asks, more like states in a deadpan voice, as though now that it's been spoken it makes a kind of sense, and his eyes widen in realization, and he moves his hand to cup Dean's face, stroking a thumb over his cheek, and Meg closes Dean's eyes, smiling even as the human soul whimpers, attuned to the sensation but wanting to get away from it.

It's not that it's happening. It's that it's happening but it's not him.

The whole situation is dirtied by Meg's presence and Dean doesn't want it. Not like this.

"Dean…there is nothing between Balthazar and I. I think we've had this conversation before." Castiel's eyes spark with mirth and it makes the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. It makes him beautiful and Dean's breath catches.

"I just…" Dean takes his other hand, playing idly with his fingers, and his heartbeat's going a mile a minute and he's not sure if that's his influence, or Meg just being convincing. "I know it's stupid but I…I've wanted you for a long time, Cas, and I hate the idea that I could wait too long and you'd be snapped up by someone less patient, or more idiotic, than I am."

Stop, Dean moans, shaking himself, and he wants to tear himself away, keeps hoping that every time Meg looks into Castiel's eyes the Angel will see that it's not him, but Castiel doesn't seem to see, doesn't seem to notice. Maybe lust has made him blind, or maybe the werewolf taint is dark enough to be a demon's, but he can't care – he's angry, angry at Meg for doing this to him, angry at himself for not being strong enough to overcome her, and angry at Castiel for not recognizing that it isn't him. Please, Meg, stop this. This isn't true – this isn't right.

Everything I'm telling him are things you yourself have thought. I'm in your head, Dean-o. You can't hide from me here. And then she giggles, her voice ringing inside Dean's head, and the human is shoved back into awareness of his body, the darkness closing in so tightly that he has no choice but to watch and feel – he can't back away. There's nowhere to go.

Castiel eyes are so gentle, so loving, that Dean wants to sob, hates Meg for taking advantage of something that he was obviously too blind or too stubborn to see. "There is nothing between Balthazar and I," Castiel whispers again, leaning down so their faces are level, and Meg blinks, and Dean realizes that she was actually making him tear up. God…

"Dean…" Castiel brushes a hand through his hair, fingernails digging into his scalp, and the human shivers, moaning internally at the feeling, the gentle, soothing touch. "If you want something of me, you need only to ask. You know that."

Dean's eyes open again and stare up into Castiel's.

"Tell me, Dean. Tell me what you want."

Oh, so many choices… Meg's laugh is practically a cackle and Dean shudders with horror and revulsion, and feels his anger and hate increase again, because at least if she would shut up Dean could pretend that this wasn't happening – or maybe that this was something he wanted to happen (because it was, he had suddenly realized, but not like this), but with her serpent's voice whispering in his ear, it was impossible to pretend or to lie to himself, and he was very aware that he was being possessed by a demon who didn't care if he enjoyed this or not – she was just storing up her ammo for 'fun'.

Bitch.

Dean's hands trail up Castiel's arms, cupping his face, and he brings them closer together, and there's no resistance from the Angel until their lips are less than an inch apart, and he can feel Castiel's warm exhale on his face. "You," Dean whispers, eyes going half-lidded. "I want you. Please, Cas."

The world explodes into sensation when Castiel kisses him. His lips are soft and slightly chapped, catching on Dean's bottom lip as the Angel slants them together, still cupping Dean's cheek, but his fingers trail down, tips and nails digging into the underside of Dean's throat, and Meg lets Dean moan. She's giving him more control in that, what Dean does in response to Castiel's touch, Meg repeats. Everything except what he says. Dean's pleas for help and words of warning go unheard, unspoken.

Dean's pulse is racing and his breath is coming faster, just from that one kiss that tastes of oceans and ozone and Castiel, and when the Angel pushes forward, Dean lies back eagerly, letting Castiel plaster himself over his body. He bends his knees, thighs framing Castiel's hips, his already hardening cock rubbing deliciously over and along Castiel's, and Dean shivers at the feeling of heat coming from Castiel, the knowledge that the Angel is just as hard as he is.

It's been a while since I drove stick, Meg muses quietly as Dean kisses Castiel, parting his lips and putting pressure on Castiel's with his tongue, sneaking inside for more when the responsive Angel lets his mouth open, quickly learning the art of kissing Dean, of dueling and losing and finding sweetness in surrender and victory in equal measure. I almost forgot how responsive male bodies are.

Please, Dean begs, shut up. Leave me be.

Sorry, Dean-o. This is half the fun.

Castiel's a fast learner, dragging his tongue along the roof of Dean's mouth, and the Hunter feels a little shiver go down his spine; his back arches up, grinding along the Angel, and Castiel is wearing too many clothes, scratching against Dean's bare, hot-water-sensitive skin. Goose bumps are breaking out over Dean's arms and Meg clutches closer to the Angel, able to feel the warmth of his Grace like heightened body heat.

This is making me feel so clean, Meg gripes softly, but her essence is practically purring, getting off on fucking an Angel.

No one said you had to be here, Dean replies softly, overwhelmed with sensation, heightened without the distracting things like needing to breathe or having to make sure Castiel doesn't accidentally crush him with his surprisingly heavy frame.

Meg unknots Dean's fingers from Castiel's hair, one hand going around the back of the Angel's neck, nails digging in softly, and the other dips under Castiel's suit jacket, plastering over the button-down and across Castiel's ribs. Dean can feel his ribcage expand with his shaky inhale.

Castiel pulls away, letting the human breathe (because he's supposed to need to), and Meg sits up, pushing Castiel so the Angel's kneeling between his legs, and he's beautiful, fuck, Dean's blown away by that, how his cheeks are adorably flushed, lips parted, sweat dampening the hair around his temples and forehead. Dean wants to reach forward, to touch him, but Meg's not letting him and it's awful, feeling like this, being a passenger in his own body.

Please, he begs Meg, wishing that his body would just respond to what he wants, wishes he could just…touch Cas. Let me touch him. Please.

You really do like this Angel, don't you Dean-o? Meg muses quietly, making Dean smile as she pushes at Castiel's clothes, getting rid of the trench coat and suit jacket and pulling at the knot of his tie, loosening it enough to toss it over his head.

How can he not tell it's not me?

Meg smiles, kissing Castiel once more, fingers deftly unbuttoning his shirt and pushing it off, hands curling around Castiel's back, pulling him closer. The Angel shivers when Dean's fingers curl underneath his shoulder blades, digging in hard enough to hurt but not to break skin. Dean chuckles against Castiel's jaw, baring his teeth enough to bite down at the sensitive skin under the Angel's ear, loving how Castiel shudders, and Meg's essence curls up a little tighter in pleasure.

It's actually a common misconception that we're any different. We may leave sulfur behind but we're still human, we taste the same and feel the same and we are the same. The only difference is on the inside and he thinks it's just the werewolf part of you. This is all you, Dean-o, except where it's me.

Bitch, Dean snaps. You can't keep this up. You can't –

"Dean." Castiel's voice is raw, lower than Dean's ever heard it, except for when he's really pissed off, and Meg sucks in a breath, turning his head back to Castiel's lips, realizing that Meg had stilled his hands during their inner conversation.

"Sorry, Cas," Meg murmurs, dragging his fingers through Castiel's hair again. "Just…can't believe this is finally happening." She shakes out a laugh, and it makes Castiel smile. She pulls Castiel closer, moving Dean's legs so they fall a little wider. "I want you inside me, Cas. Please."

No…

Castiel's eyes widen, and he bites his lower lip gently, before nodding and pushing Dean back down, willing the rest of their clothes away. Perk, Meg purrs quietly, smiling. Dean finds himself hoping that Castiel will see the sigil in his arm and realize that not all is quite right, but the Angel's eyes are intent on his face and with the way Meg's arms are wrapped around him, he wouldn't be able to see it anyway unless he really tried.

"Are you sure, Dean?"

No!

"Yes, Cas, please…need you so bad." She's making Dean sound like a slut, throwing his head back, grabbing desperately onto Castiel's shoulders, and Dean's watching him through half-lidded eyes, breath coming out thick and fast, bucking his hips up against Castiel's. Skin against skin – it's nothing like the duller sensation through clothes. It's more. More heat, more friction – Dean's body is trembling and he needs. God, he needs so badly, but he doesn't want it.

Not like this.

The Angel nods, biting his lip gently again, and leans over Dean, his smaller vessel fitting so perfectly against his, and Meg spreads Dean's legs just that little bit wider, bent and the knee, up and out. Fuck, Dean feels like a whore, wants to turn away but he can't, can't because Meg won't let him.

Dean hears a bottle lid snap, and he doesn't know where Castiel got the brain cells or the knowledge to have summoned up lubricant, but he's grateful, because he has no doubt in his mind that Meg would let Cas fuck him dry. Castiel's lips return to Dean's, and the Hunter loses himself in it, trying to find comfort and strength in that small bit of contact as he feels Castiel's fingers by his hole. He wants to tense up and move away but he can't, damn it, and Meg relaxes his body and lets him graciously inside, right up until the rest of Castiel's hand stops him, and Dean whines in pain, because the burn is more pain than anything else.

"More," Meg rasps against his lips, and Castiel nods, biting his lip, and pulls his first finger out, bringing it back with a second. Dean's clenched tightly in pain but his body isn't – this is too much and he wants to be able to fight it but he can't because Meg's not letting him, and the werewolf part of him is reveling in this too – this primal meeting where Dean's just being used like a bitch, so Dean's outnumbered, and he gets all of the pain of Castiel's touch, but his body shows no outward sign of discomfort so really, Cas wouldn't know any better.

It's not his fault, but Dean kind of blames him anyway. Him and Meg.

Meg whines, arching Dean's body up and fucking him onto Castiel's fingers, moaning low in Dean's throat when the Angel's fingers touch his prostate and Dean's mind lights up like a fucking Christmas tree. That feels good. So, so good. It's like an electric shock through a swimming pool, and Dean's caught right in the middle of drowning.

"Mmm…Cas, please…can't wait. Need you now."

No, Meg, please. Dean's afraid, now, tense and fearful, and it hasn't been nearly enough – his body's not prepared enough and Castiel's not exactly small. Dean will have to deal with all the pain while Meg forces his body through the pleasure, and this isn't right. Please, Meg, please. Stop.

He's not above begging – not when the situation calls for it. Not when he's so utterly helpless.

Meg licks Dean's lips when Castiel pulls his fingers out, breathing heavily, and she guides Dean's hand to Castiel's wrist, making the Angel use the rest of the lube to slick himself up. "There we go," she purrs, smiling with sharpness at the corners. "Come on, Angel. Fuck me."

It doesn't even sound like me. He can't – why can't he tell? Dean's shaking, his body trembling and some of it must be his fear, but all Castiel can smell is arousal in the air, pure want made into a scent, and though the darkness inside of Dean troubles him, Castiel believes Dean when he says he doesn't feel different, doesn't feel the wolf inside of him. Through Castiel's logic, it must be Dean.

Besides, he may be a little obtuse at times but he's not blind. This has been a long time coming.

It's not me, you stupid son of a bitch! Dean yells, beating against the walls of Meg's essence, and he almost sags with relief when it seems like, for a split second, he breaks through – but it's just Meg messing with him. She's healed the break in the wall before he can even get a word out. It's not me! Don't you realize that? Why don't you realize that? Please, Cas!

He can't hear you, Dean, Meg quips, smirking in victory when Castiel takes a deep breath, forehead resting against Dean's collarbone, and pushes in, in one smooth thrust inside of him.

Dean moans in pain, the feeling of getting ripped apart way too much for him. God, it's so sudden and big and…Dean recoils from Meg, tries to find solace in his happy place – he'd used it in Hell, he could do it again – but Meg's inside him now and he can't run anywhere. The wolf, Meg, Cas… Dean's too full and he feels like he's about to explode. He just wants to curl in on himself and shut everything out.

This will destroy Castiel. When Meg's done, she'll gloat over the fact that it wasn't even Dean – that Dean was fighting her every step of the way, that he didn't want it. That Castiel essentially raped him. She'll tear through both Angel and Hunter with glee when she's done with them – the only pity would be no staying around and watching them try to deal.

When Castiel moves, Dean moans in pain but Meg purrs in pleasure. She lifts his hips to meet Castiel, locking their eyes and their lips and combing Dean's fingers through Castiel's hair, and Dean tries to concentrate on the good part of this – because there is pleasure, in the background, hanging around like bad wallpaper – but the pain is ultimate and all-consuming. Dean's physical body has never had to accommodate something like this and Meg's certainly not helping, and Dean feels like he's being ripped apart from the inside. His body is on fire – Castiel's fire is burning him, and he can't do a damn thing about it, except lie back and play dead while Meg plays inside his body, reciprocates for him, meeting and answering Castiel's kisses and thrusts, and all Dean can think is that it shouldn't have happened like this.

Dean wakes up sore, and devastated. He feels like he's back in Hell, laid bare, stripped open, ripped apart. He can't move his body but he can feel the heavy weight of an arm around his chest, and the scratchy feeling of drying come both on his stomach and – he grimaces – between his legs. He wants to turn his head away, but he can't and he won't give Meg the satisfaction of seeing just how screwed up he is by this.

Morning, Dean-o, Meg whispers cheerily, sitting him up and stretching his arms high over his head, and Dean winces and the various aches of his body, particularly at his ass. God, now he knows how a stuck pig feels.

How many times? he whispers, scared to know but needing to know.

You sucked him off once, he fucked you three more times after you passed out and he ate you out and made you come just from that, Meg replies with a smirk, which grows when Dean whimpers and curls in on himself. Our boy Angel's like the little Energizer bunny.

He's not our Angel, okay? Dean snaps. He's not yours. He will never belong to you, and he will never be yours, you soulless bitch. As soon as you get out of my body, I swear to everything that is Holy I will find a way to make you suffer. If I have to exorcise you, bring you back and do it over and over – if I have to torture you like I did those souls in Hell – if I have to die and join you down there, I will make sure you regret ever getting in my meat.

Promise baby? Meg replies, preening just a little, and she turns Dean's head, looking back at Castiel. He's so pretty, don't you think? He chose a nice meat suit to inhabit. And boy, the things I taught him to do with that vessel. Dean's body gives a happy little shiver, and the action makes pain lance up Dean's spine again. We're gonna have to do that again.

Dean remains silent, so Meg stands up, stretching out again. Sam isn't in the motel room and Dean wonders if Sam might have walked in and caught them, and left for another room. He doesn't know what option he wishes for more.

Listen, Dean-o, there is actually a method to my madness, she says, turning on the shower and stepping under it. Dean doesn't even have the energy to care when her hands start wandering like before. I want something from you.

What? the Hunter snaps.

Crowley's head on a stick, she replies, lathering up the shampoo into Dean's hair. Dean snorts at that. You guys are the only ones with the balls, the stupidity and the means to infiltrate Crowley's compound, and I want that little rat bastard dead. If you kill him, I'll leave your body and let you continue on your merry way trying to get baby brother's soul back.

Forgive me if I'm a little dubious, Dean murmurs in reply, voice low and wary, rough with distrust and emotion. Why would you want him dead?

Stupid bastard tried to kill me – tried to kill all those loyal to Lucifer. Tit for tat, baby.

Right. Dean snorts. And then, what? You become Queen of Hell and rise up against us? No thanks – I'd rather stay with the Devil I know. Besides, Angels are trying to restart the Apocalypse. I wouldn't put it past you to do the same thing.

Meg sighs. Listen, Dean-o. The classic way of opening the cage is gone. There's no last seal to break anymore – I mean, the first Demon can't die twice, yanno? So it's all up to your Angel boys, and I don't think Clarence in there will let it come to that. You've got friends that'll stop the Apocalypse happening, and to be honest I'd be perfectly happy running Hell and biding my time, waiting for you spanners in the works to die so I could do this right.

That…doesn't make me feel better, Dean replies.

Meg shrugs. Love, it's either your meat or your pride. Which will it be?

Dean doesn't answer for a long while, and then sighs. I'll help you, he says, despair washing over him as Meg finishes the shower and towels him dry. But, please, just…don't make it worse, okay? Please – I want to be able to get this over with as quickly and smoothly as possible and that won't happen if they know about you being inside me.

Fair dues, Meg concedes, going back into the motel room and over to Dean's duffle, and Dean hisses when she bends him over, digging through the clothing to find something that wasn't dirty. She giggles inside his head. It's a shame you weren't awake for the whole thing, Dean-o, it was beautiful. Used and put away dirty. Again, Dean's body trembles a little in remembered pleasure, and Dean's almost glad that he doesn't have the memories to associate with the feelings. Phenomenal.

Please shut up, Dean murmurs.

I'm just saying, Dean – you should definitely go for this once I'm gone. You can thank me later.

How can I possibly -? Dean cuts himself off before he can be lured into her trap, sighing when Meg straightens, dressing Dean up like he's some fucking Barbie Doll, in comfortable jeans, a tight black t-shirt and an open green button-down over that. Where's Sam?

He came in about round three, and then went to find another room. He was all for watching but Castiel told him to go away. I don't think he would have cared either way.

He…saw? Dean asks in horror, unable to believe his little brother had seen him get…well, get fucked by an Angel. It sounded like a bad porno. Oh God, he saw…

He would have heard anyway. We're very vocal, Dean-o.

Oh God…

There's a shifting on the bed and Meg turns to see Castiel watching Dean with dark blue eyes. Head propped on one elbow, sheet falling around his hips, he looks like a fucking calendar model. Dean's mouth waters looking at him, and he feels his body begin to heat up in anticipation, and he fights it with all he can, but he can't.

"We have to get Sam's soul," Meg says and Castiel nods, between one blink and the next he's clean and dressed, standing at the end of the bed, which has also been cleaned and remade. "You said Balthazar would be able to help us?"

Castiel nods. "But I doubt he'd say anything. He's very possessive over the stolen weapons."

"We have to try. I know you'll be able to reach him – no one else will." Meg makes Dean smile and step forward, carding his fingers through the Angel's soft hair, and Castiel's eyes close. He smells like Dean, and Dean takes heart knowing that it's actually his scent, not hers. "I don't like it, but if you think he's our best shot then please – let's go for it."

Castiel blinks up at him, and then smiles slowly, the expression barely there. "I will, Dean," he says solemnly, and Meg smiles and leans down, pressing a light kiss to the corner of Castiel's jaw, his stubble rough on Dean's cheek.

Dean can sense her intention, and he wants to stop it, but he's tired, now. He's so fucking tired he can't stand it. All he has is his useless begging and he knows that it won't help. He doesn't want to share any more of Castiel with Meg, but that doesn't matter. Meg brings his lips to Castiel's again, stealing the Angel's breath away and Castiel cups Dean's jaw, holds him close, and it feels so good, so gentle and loving that Dean damn near wants to cry.

"I'll see you later?" Dean asks when they pull away, and Castiel nods. In a flutter of wings he's gone again, and Dean feels the loss. He really does.

Alright, time to go demon-hunting! Meg says cheerfully, sauntering over to Dean's things and packing up, ready to get on the road and go find Crowley. Come on, Winchester – we's gots Kings of Hell to kill.

Yay, Dean says sarcastically, and Meg just grins and ignores him, finding Sam in the reception to the motel and telling him to get his ass in gear – they leave in five.

"So…why are we bothering with Crowley? What would killing him accomplish?"

"Let's face it, Sammy – he won't bring your soul back, he's not useful to us anymore and we don't need a wild card like that in our deck. Besides, with all the smart-ass remarks and wise cracks he's been making, the guy's a real pain in my ass and I just want him gone," Meg replies, pulling onto the highway from the turn-off that had led to the town the Winchesters had spent the night in. "So long as Cas is out looking for the douche bag stealing all the weapons, we might as well kill this birdie with a shotgun full of salt, am I right?"

"I…guess," Sam says slowly, brow wrinkling in confusion over the amount of colloquialisms and turns of phrase Dean manages to cram into one sentence, but he gets the gist of what his brother's trying to say. "And you're feeling okay?" he asks, turning to look at Dean. "No urges to bite people, no howling at the moon?"

"Nope, Sammy. I feel fantastic. Fit as a fiddle and all that jazz."

"Right." Sam smirks, and Meg sees it out of the corner of Dean's eye.

"What?" she asks, and Dean feels a little bit of dread coil in his stomach, knowing what Sam's about to bring up – soul or no soul, he can tell when Sam's got something dirty on his mind because he no longer cares about covering it up.

"So…you and Castiel, huh?" Sam asks with a sly kind of smirk, like the one he tried to cover up asking about Oberon, and Dean recoils inside his own mind, shame and anguish washing over him, thinking about…well, not so much about what had happened, but what was going to happen when Meg vacated his body (if she ever did) and how Castiel would react and…

Meg makes Dean laugh. "Yep. Me and Cas." She's making him casual, lighthearted about it, like he couldn't be happier. "Problem with that?"

"Nope. Just…glad it finally happened. All the eye-fuckery was giving me a headache." And Dean roils at that, wants to deny it, but he doesn't have the energy and it's not like Sam would be able to hear him anyway. "If you're happy, man, then so am I."

Dean smiles and presses his foot against the gas, and his baby roars underneath him as she leaps up another twenty miles per hour, and the brothers speed on to the tune of Zeppelin.

They're about another day's drive from where Crowley is rumored to be holed up when Castiel calls Dean. "Yeah, Cas?" Meg answers, looking over at Sam, who sits up straighter and pays attention.

"I have found Balthazar, but he is being uncooperative," Castiel says softly through the phone. "He is not giving me any answers and I am running out of time before I must return to Heaven."

"You want me and Sam to join you?" Meg asks, and Dean perks up a little bit at the mention of joining Castiel, indecision warring in his gut over desire and dread to see the Angel again – he's more interested, honestly, in Balthazar. "I mean, I know it's been a while but we could try talking to him, see what he'll tell us."

She's suggesting torture. Castiel knows it, Dean knows it, and Sam knows it too. Dean remembers his time in Hell, remembers the tricks he learned and he knows Meg still remembers her own ways – he's the torturer and suggesting this should horrify them. They should protest.

But they're not protesting. Sam's stoic and silent (because he doesn't care and it's the logical choice – take something by force if you can't get it by kindness) and Castiel's not saying anything. Dean can only hear his breathing through the phone.

"…Where are you? I can come pick you up."

"Indiana. Near Greensburg off the 74." There's a flutter of wings and Castiel's standing outside the passenger door. He puts his hand on the top of the Impala and the Winchesters – car included – suddenly find themselves in the middle of nowhere, outside what looks to be an abandoned barn, much like the one Castiel and Dean had first met in.

Meg raises Dean's eyebrow and gets out of the car, taking a little breath in as she looks up at the dark, foreboding building. There'll probably be all sorts of wards in there, for Angels and demons alike, Dean murmured, following her train of thought.

Well, never say I don't take risks for you, Meg chirped in reply, before looking over at Castiel and Sam, who were standing on the other side of the Impala, watching him. Castiel's eyes are dark with concern and there's a little furrow in his brow that speaks of his wariness and indecision regarding the matter, and Sam – of course – is impassive.

"Just to be clear," Meg says, going around the back of the Impala and popping the trunk lid open. "What exactly are we asking for?"

"The weapon is used primarily for breaking down wards and other defenses, both permanently and temporarily to use hollow structures as impenetrable safe houses. It is, essentially, a Battering Ram. This is the weapon we will use to break through the cage."

Meg nods, biting the inside of Dean's cheek. "Alright." Meg looks up, biting Dean's lower lip gently, and Dean can feel her mind whirring in thought. When she comes to a decision, it's obvious she's proud of herself – her essence lights up in red and purple. She forces Dean to look down, closing his eyes, like he's struggling with the weight of his decision to revert to the role of torturer. Like Sam had looked when drinking down enough demon blood to be strong enough to be Lucifer's vessel. "Can you guys, maybe, wait out here? Please?" she asks, making Dean's eyes wide and innocent, his voice soft and pleading, and when his eyes flash over to Castiel and Sam, she sees them nodding and smirks to herself. "Okay. Give me three hours. If I'm not done by then, we'll have to come up with a Plan B."

"Good luck, Dean," Sam says, and Castiel doesn't say a thing. He just nods, and Meg takes another breath, and then begins the trek up to the old barn.

This won't work. How the hell will you torture an Angel? Dean asks when Meg pushes on the old doors, letting them swing open with a loud creaking sound that grates on Dean's nerves and ears. Luckily, the barn is not warded against demons – there's not a Devil's Trap or line of salt in sight. The barn is, in fact, completely bare. The only thing that obstructs the drab, uninteresting building is Balthazar.

The Angel's been made to manifest his wings – they're strung out to either side of him, forcing him into a fighting stance, and large, severe-looking tow-truck hooks are stabbed through the arches, forcing them up. Dean winces in sympathy, reminded of when he was strung up in the Pit, before being tortured. Balthazar looks just as bad. The Angel's body is limp, hanging from shackles attached to the strong wooden beams by his arms and neck and waist, his toes barely brushing the floor. His clothes are ripped and there's blood running, still liquid, down the side of his face. It looks like someone already had several rounds with him.

He'll see us, Dean warns as Meg steps him forward, he'll know it's not me and he'll blab to Castiel and you'll be finished. He's actually strangely giddy about that fact. If the secret's out then Meg'll be in trouble and despite the fact that he doesn't know how you exorcise a demon from a sealed body he's confident Castiel will find a way and help him. You won't be able to keep this up. And how to you plan to torture the Angel anyway? – he can smite you with a touch.

Meg giggles lightly, tossing Dean's head to get rid of the hair that isn't there again. Oh ye of little faith. Don't worry, sweetheart – remember, we both learned from the best.

The sound of Dean's laugh – even effeminized as Meg does it – makes Balthazar stir. The Angel lifts his head and a cold kind of determination seals over his expression. "Well, well, send in the cavalry," he says lightly, smirking a little as Dean advances, his fingers twitching where they hang from his shackled wrists. "And what do you plan on doing to me, hmm? Gonna whine and bitch at me to death?"

For the first time, Dean and Meg are in complete sync with each other, watching Balthazar, and Dean feels hatred roil in his gut, knowing that this creature and Castiel were…well, he doesn't want to think about it. Meg – Meg just wants to torture, but for Dean, this is so beyond personal.

Balthazar sucks in a breath when Dean's eyes go black, and the demon purrs, advancing on Balthazar who clenches his fists and tries to shy away, but he can't because he has no leverage. "Oh, darlin'," Meg murmurs, taking Balthazar's chin in hand and forcing his face up, their faces hovering inches apart, and Dean really hopes Meg will stick to torturing because he's not sure he wants to go that far in fucking with Balthazar; "You may have gotten soft on the run, and you may be all big and powerful when it's just you against the world with all your pretty toys and fancy wards, but here –" She lets his head drop with a distasteful snarl, going back to the duffle bag she'd brought in, and hoisting out of it a long silver blade – an Angel blade, though from who she couldn't say. "– you're in my house, and in my house, anything goes." She runs Dean's fingers over the blade, smiling at the power she can feel humming through Dean's wrist. "And I don't play nice."

"Who are you, if not that whiney mud monkey?" Balthazar snaps, eyes cold and blue and Dean growls at the question, indignant and angered by it.

Meg just laughs. "Not to sound cliché, but baby? I'm your worst nightmare."

Balthazar swallows, and Dean feels a little visceral thrill run through him, his anticipation putting a little shake to his essence – of all the things he doesn't mind torturing, Balthazar is high up on the list. Meg's hand remains steady as she waves the Angel blade, and Dean swears he hears it whistle in the air. He's breathing hard but outwardly calm, a little darker part of him perking up at the mention and promise of enemy bloodshed. He would be disturbed by these thoughts – and he kind of is. A little. But he really hates Balthazar – the Angel just rubs up against him the wrong way – and he wouldn't mind seeing him suffer.

Meg leans down, smiling again, and lays the blade against Balthazar's collarbone. "I know you won't, but you can start talking now, if you want. I'm obligated not to hurt you if you just cooperate."

Balthazar bares his blood-lined teeth and doesn't say a thing. Meg straightens.

"Fantastic."

Dean's never seen pure Grace before. Not, like, as an actual Angel. He'd seen Anna's Grace trapped in that little vial, but anything worth mentioning is so bright and powerful that humans have to avert their eyes otherwise they'd get blinded by it.

This is a whole new ball game.

When Meg slices into Balthazar, going deeper than blood and bone, the Angel blade leads straight to the Angel's Grace. It's a bright glowing core, pulsing white with flecks of blue and gold around the edges, and when Meg finds it she coos in delight. Balthazar screamed himself hoarse about an hour ago. Half the feathers of his right wing have been plucked off, feather by excruciating feather, the open wounds have salt crusting around the edges. It burned Meg and Dean to handle but the bastard knows there's a demon inside of Dean anyway, so why not pull out all the stops?

With each slice at Grace and flesh, Dean feels a little bit of himself fall away. It's a slippery slope and he knows it is – the wolf part of him is reveling in the bloodshed and he can smell it in the air – the rust, the tang and salt of Balthazar's sweat and tears and blood. Meg's practically shuddering with pleasure at every moan, every keen and scream and broken cry. And Dean…Dean's just remembering, feeling blood run down his forearms, how nice it feels to wallow in the blood of an enemy and a victim. He hates himself for loving this, for torturing (or at least, not fighting) and going along with Meg's plans, with her carnal lust, and he knows his body is burning from pleasure, seeing this powerful creature driven to his knees (figuratively speaking) by his hand. He just wants to rip Balthazar apart, his answers aren't nearly as important as seeing him fall.

"I wonder how humanity would suit you," Meg growls, her eyes still black to protect them from the brightness of Balthazar's Grace. "How you'd handle it if I yanked this pretty thing right from you and kept it for myself. All the powers of an Angel…gone…"

It's the first time anything Meg's said has gotten the reaction they wanted – fear. Balthazar's eyes widen and he lifts his head – more like lolls it because the muscles in his neck are very badly damaged and he can't actually support his head – to look at Dean. "No," he rasps out, coughing when the action makes him choke on his own blood.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Meg asks, cocking Dean's head to one side, burying his hand a little deeper in Balthazar's chest, fist tightening around the glowing ball of Grace. It burns but the burn is so good. "Care to repeat that, love?"

"No, please…" Balthazar's coughing again, and Dean can feel his ribcage spasm around his forearm. "I'll…tell you. I'll tell you."

Meg smiles, leaning Dean's forehead against Balthazar's. "I knew you'd come around," she whispers. "Tell me where this Battering Ram thing is, and maybe I'll let you stay Angel. Come on, baby – tell me."

Balthazar drags in a deep breath through burning lungs. "It's…in Wyoming. Near the Devil's Gate," he chokes out, and Meg cocks Dean's head to one side, lips pursed, considering.

"I really hope you're telling the truth, Angel."

"I…I am."

Meg smiles. "Good." And then, she grips the Angel blade tightly, holds Balthazar's Grace steady, and thrusts the blade right into the Angel's Grace. Balthazar jerks at the sudden, sharp stab of pain, fixing wide eyes on Dean. "Sorry, baby – can't have you continuing to be a nuisance to me." She closes Dean's eyes in time for a high-pitched whine to fill the barn, Balthazar's body reduced to a burning center of bright, blinding light, and then Dean is thrown backwards from an explosive force, thrown at the through the doors of the barn and down the slight bank as the barn explodes from the force of Balthazar's death.

"Dean?" Meg flickers her eyes open, seeing Castiel and Sam staring down at her – but it's weird. That infra-red filter again, and Dean stiffens, realizing that Castiel and Sam will be able to see his black eyes. Even as he watches, their eyes widen in realization, and Castiel's got a hand out to keep him down to the ground again.

"Who are you?"

Time for the truth, Meg, Dean snaps, curling up a little tighter, because although he'd wanted Balthazar to suffer…he didn't want…well. Torture was one thing, but outright murder? No, Dean didn't condone that, and he didn't want it, and – damn it, they could use all the allies they could get, whether they were douche bags or not.

Castiel's fist gets tighter – there's righteous fury blazing in his eyes. "Tell me who you are. Now."

Meg gasps, throwing Dean's head back at the feeling of being choked, but Castiel can't force her out – she's bound into Dean's body. The black smoke that is Meg chokes and clogs Dean's throat.

Sam realizes it first. "Cas, that won't work," he murmurs, looking over at the Angel, then back to Dean. His eyes are focused on Dean's exposed forearm. "There's only one demon I know who uses sigils like that." His eyes flash to Dean's – Meg's. "Meg."

Meg smirks. "Hello, tall, dark and soulless," she purrs, grinning up at Sam behind Dean's face, and the younger Winchester's jaw clenches tightly – Dean can tell he's this close to punching Dean, only holding himself back because it's not Dean.

Meg flickers Dean's eyes back to Castiel, but the Angel doesn't look angry. He looks devastated. His eyes are wide with realization, and his hand shakes where he's still holding it out in front of him, still keeping Dean on his back on the ground. "You…" His voice is low, heavy with denial, and he shakes his head. "How long have you been possessing Dean?"

Meg laughs. "Oh, long enough, Clarence," she answers, with a laugh that is more a cackle than anything else. "Ever since Dean-o got bitten. He was changing and dying and I, out of the kindness of my heart, took his meat to stop the transformation. Aren't I a good person?" She smiles Dean's cheeky smile, her eyes still black and staring up at the two men.

"You…" Castiel takes a step back, his hand finally falling to his side. "You were…Dear Father in Heaven." He shakes his head, and it's the most shaken Dean's ever seen him – he knows what Castiel's thinking and he wants to get up and make it better, wants to tell Castiel that it's alright – he didn't know. He couldn't know. But he can't, because Meg's not letting him.

In fact, she's making it worse; "I still have to thank you for the ride," she purrs, smiling. "If it weren't for you ol' Dean-o would still be an ass-virgin, and we can't be having that."

Shut up, you bitch! Don't talk to him like that!

"You will be silent!" Castiel snarls, making a gesture with his hand, and Dean's lips are sealed shut. The Angel looks like he's a second away from smiting something. "Now, answer with a nod or a shake of your head – did you find the location of the weapon?" Meg nods, obedient because Castiel has murder eyes and her mission's not done yet.

Dean finds it interesting that Castiel doesn't even mention his newly dead Brother – maybe he and Balthazar weren't as close as he'd thought. Maybe this whole week has just been one epic mindfuck and he'll wake up tomorrow to find that his brother never actually came back and he's still living with Lisa and Ben, hunting monsters that aren't there.

Yeah, that would be peachy.

Castiel sighs after a moment, watching Dean like he's just been stabbed and Dean was the one holding the knife. The Hunter is pained at that look – wants to erase it, wants to make it better, but he can't – he can't because it's his fault and there's nothing he can do about it.

Tell them what you want. They'll help you to save my skin, he whispers.

Um, I'm kind of muted right now, sweetheart.

Okay, then tell Castiel you need to talk or something. And for God's sake, give me my eyes back.

Meg rolls Dean's eyes but obeys, and Dean sighs in relief, seeing everything in Technicolor again. Thank you, he murmurs, and the demon snorts again, snapping Dean's fingers twice to get Castiel's attention, then gestures to his mouth. Castiel's lips thin out in a line, but he waves his hand, and Dean can speak again.

"Alright, listen," Meg says, holding up Dean's hands – is surprised briefly that she can – and then stands up, dusting Dean off. "You want to shiv my ass, great – but you can't exorcise me with this sigil thing, and I know the location of the weapon. So, here's what's gonna happen – you're going to help me, and then I will leave Dean alone. Like, forever. You too, Sammy, and you, Clarence." She grins and Castiel's jaw tightens, looking to Sam for guidance, but he's not going to get anything he likes from there.

"What is it that you want help with?" Sam asks softly, and his hand is buried in one half of his jacket where Dean knows he used to have the demon-killing knife before using it became something they didn't have to do so often.

"I want Crowley's head on a stick," Meg replies. "You give me that and I'll vacate Dean's skin, safe and sound." She smiles beatifically. "Cross my heart."

Castiel cocks his head to one side, eyes focused on Meg. "I don't believe you," he states simply, and Dean fights the urge to try and yell at him, wishing he would just stop fucking stalling and get on with it, because he wants Meg out of him, like, yesterday. "Why would you leave as quickly and simply as that?"

"Because you guys are old meat. I have fresh intentions and my sights are set on bigger fish that you," she replies sweetly, smiling. "Seriously, wearing him was fun but you're not gonna let me have any fun anymore. I'm smart enough to know when to leave a sinking ship, m'kay?"

Dean doesn't say anything, because he doesn't want to give her a reason to change her mind. Ever. At all. Castiel still looks unsure, but Sam's expression is set – he's the logical one, after all. He'd have seen that the best option was just to go along with the person who holds all the cards. The Angel's eyes flash to Dean's brother and Sam swallows, and nods, his brow furrowed in that classic 'I agree, but I don't have to like it' expression that he'd come to adopt since losing his soul.

"Awesome," Meg chirps, clapping Dean's hands together, and as she heads to the Impala she notices that Castiel keeps his distance, not even looking at the Hunter, and Dean swallows pang a pang of sadness and anger before Meg can sense it. "Okay first thing's first – which is number one priority? Crowley or Sam?"

Sam, Dean snaps immediately, but both Sam and Castiel say 'Crowley'. Of course.

You're so self-sacrificing, Dean-o. It makes me sick, Meg says, sliding into the driver's seat of the Impala, ready to start the drive back into Indiana to find Crowley. "Hey, Cas, where are we exactly? I need to know what direction to go."

Dean can see in the rear-view mirror when Castiel clenches his jaw, reacting negatively to Dean's voice, Dean's body, but it not being Dean. He's never had to deal with possessed loved ones before. He doesn't answer – instead he presses his palm to the roof of the Impala, and they're flying. It feels weird, like being smashed apart and reassembled in a micro-second, but they're back at the service station in Indiana in a blink of an eye. Meg smiles sweetly at Castiel who just glares back, and disappears in a flutter of wings.

"Awesome," Meg says, putting the Impala in 'drive' and peeling out. Dean seeks out a little bit of comfort in his baby's purr, wanting so bad to run his fingers over the leather seats and smooth, sun-warmed dashboard. The sun's just setting now and Sam and Dean would be settling down for the night. Meg looks over at Sam who's sitting silently, staring out at the road ahead. "What do you say – sleep then hunting afresh in the morning?"

Sam swallows and looks over at Dean, searching his brother's face and knowing it's not his brother, and then nods. "Sure, Meg. Sounds good." Meg grins at him and Dean stirs uneasily inside his head, unsure why she would want to delay anything – for all she knows Castiel and Sam will jump them in their sleep and force Meg out of his body. He hates having his life controlled so much by someone else – this is why he told those Angel dicks to shove it, thank you.

Meg pulls into the parking lot of the next motel they find, and they check in, and find their motel room…

…And then the shit hits the fan.

"Um…hey there. S'been a long time, hasn't it?"

"Too long, I should think. I've been meaning to rectify that but, you know." A smile. "Busy times and all that."

A raised eyebrow, a casual lean. Arms folded, smirk on his face, he's the picture of ease. "Right. I get that a lot too. So…" He cocks his head, eyeing the circle of candles and the five-pointed star, and the burning herbs for the summoning ritual. "What brings me here this fine night?"

"I have a task for you." He's casual and cocky, practically strutting back and forth before the other creature, hands behind his back. "I seem to have a pest problem that I'd like you to take care of."

The other eyebrow goes up. "A pest problem?"

"The Winchesters are becoming real thorns in my arse," Crowley explains, straightening up and eyeing the other creature. "And I know they're real pains in yours too. I suggest a…collaboration of intents."

"Stop beating around the bush," he demands, darkness flaring in his eyes now, all business.

"The Winchesters are pest. Simple as, but you cannot kill them – they still may have use. However, they intend to foil my plans and, through that, yours. I believe you would be a suitable person to delay them. I don't mind what you do – it should be fun to watch – but, I need them to be alive."

"And why should I do any of this?" Gabriel growls, lifting his chin in an arrogant huff, because Crowley has no power over him here – he's a lowly demon, and Gabriel…is so much more.

"Because they are the ones responsible for your death," Crowley replies sternly, rocking on his heels – "And I'm the one that brought you back."

Man, this is like déjà vu all over again, Dean gripes as Meg looks around, raising an eyebrow at the various people…walking around like they're in ancient Rome or something. Like, with togas and candles and oil lamps – the whole shebang. There are even naked men working out in front of them, tossing a discus and seeing who can get it the farthest.

Meg lets out a low whistle of appreciation for some of the athletes. You know, Dean, we could have some fun here, she starts, then smiles when Dean snarls at her. Fine. Spoilsport.

"Meg?" Sam's confused – it's clear on his face, and Dean takes a moment to realize that his brother, too, is dressed for the occasion. But not in a toga, no – he's wearing a red cape that covers one shoulder and falls down his back, fastened by a leather belt and brooch that goes under his uncovered arm. He has sandals on his feet, ties criss-crossing to just under his knees to keep them on, and a red loincloth-looking thing hangs down between his legs. "What the hell's going on?"

Meg looks down and sees that Dean is wearing the same sort of thing. Fantastic. "Um…I have no idea?" Meg suggests, shrugging. "It's not like I regularly take trips back to Ancient Rome, although those guys sure knew how to party, I'll tell ya that for nothin'."

This has supernatural stink all over it, Dean growls. Could be Crowley. Is he powerful enough to create illusions like this?

"Not that I know of," Meg replies and ignores the look Sam gives her, since she's essentially talking to herself. "Come on," she says, taking Sam's arm, "let's go find who's in charge."

They journey through the city and eventually come to the outskirts, where it looks like several more men in the same clothing as Sam and Dean are gathered around a half dozen other men, dressed differently in the pale, sandy color of the dessert. As they watch, one of the men yells something unintelligible and kicks the leader of the other men, and they watch as he falls backwards into a hole in the ground.

This looks strangely familiar…

The scene changes, and this time Dean definitely recognizes it. It's fucking Dr Sexy M.D. Only this time, they don't have time to wait until Dean gets shot. The scene changes before anything can happen, and Dean's confused when, instead of 'Nutcracker' or something vaguely familiar, he's in what looks like a forest, glowing everywhere, bright blues and purples and luminescent greens. The forest is pitch black – it's nighttime – and Dean looks down at himself.

He's fucking blue.

"What the hell?" Meg asks Sam, who shrugs, just as nonplussed about it. There's a growl off to their right and both of them turn to see what looks like a weird-ass hybrid between a flower and a panther. It's growling at them, long, jagged-edged curving teeth bared, advancing on them and they have no weapons, no means of fighting and they sure as hell can't outrun something on four legs.

When the thing jumps at them, though, they do run. Sam goes one way, Dean another and the panther-thing growls and chases after Meg and Dean. The Hunter scrambles to get away, trees and leaves whipping his face as he runs and the thing's right behind him, fast on – fuck, did it have six legs? – and he can hear it snarling in his ear as he runs, Meg pushing his body faster than what humans should be capable of, but it's not working – Dean's not human right now and neither is the thing chasing him.

Meg just makes him jump over a cliff when the scene changes again.

He lands on his shoulder, groaning in pain and rolling onto his back, and he's in another forest. This one lacks the whole glow-in-the-dark-paint effect, but it's really cold. He realizes that first.

There's a sound of hoof beats, and Dean feels winded but Meg forces his body up anyway. Something around his neck feels heavy and Meg frowns, fishing it out to find…

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

It's the fucking One Ring. With lettering inscribed and everything.

The hoof beats are getting louder, and Meg looks up, seeing something moving towards them through the trees. It's big, brown and white, and it's moving really quickly, too quickly for Meg to tell where it's coming from. Dean's stirring uneasily, his mind not doing well with all this adrenaline and no physical reaction to take it out on, and Meg only stands watching as a centaur comes crashing through the brush towards them, skidding to a halt right in front of the possessed Hunter.

Dean bursts into laughter when he sees its face. It's Sam. Meg just smirks.

"I guess the whole 'hung like a horse thing' is rendered obsolete, huh?" she quips, and Sam glares down at her, his forelegs shifting just a little. Dean's gotta admit, his little brother does look kind of badass – the horse body is strong and powerful, solid, compact muscle covered in a fine layer of dark brown hair, like his normal hair color, with black socks and black shiny hooves.

"Meg? Dean? Do you know what the hell is going on?"

We're in movie land, Dean whispers suddenly, only it's like…half movie land. There's a little bit of repeat but…Shit, oh shit.

What? Meg snaps.

Does Crowley have the mojo to resurrect an Archangel?

Meg frowns, and looks up at Sam, who's looking at his horse body as though it's a weird alien leech thing that he suddenly found attached to his body. "Has someone done something like this before?" she asks both brothers, wariness coiling around her because if an Archangel's in on this, she's screwed.

Sam's eyes widen. "Gabriel," he whispers.

I knew it.

"Isn't he dead?" Meg asks, and shrugs at Sam's surprised look – "When Lucifer killed him, he told me about it, okay? I know things sometimes."

Yeah, he is dead.

"Either it's a copycat or someone brought him back, and given our track record with being brought back to life I'm willing to bet it's the latter," Sam muses. "But why? Why this – movie-land? Why now?" His tail flicks uneasily behind him like he's swatting flies, and Dean can't help it – he breaks out into laughter again. It's just fucking funny, seeing Sam with a horse body – in sort of like that weird, hysterical, Twilight Zone kind of way.

We caught him before. We can do it again, Dean says and Meg repeats it.

"We had holy oil back then, Dean," Sam replies. "I don't think you can pull it out of my ass this time."

"Then we'll wait," Dean says, Meg repeating him again; "Eventually he'll slip up. He's a creature of habit just like everything else. We just have to bide our time."

The next place Gabriel sends them to is a porno. Dean immediately feels uncomfortable (but luckily Sam isn't half-horse anymore), especially when Meg starts eyeing up his half-naked brother like he's a prime steak and she's starving.

Sam catches her gaze, watches her lick Dean's lips, and swallows, and looks away again.

Meg sidles up to Sam, wrapping Dean's arms around his little brother and grins against Sam's neck, purring into his ear; "Ever thought about doin' it with a demon inside a guy's body?" Sam stiffens at the question and Dean feels like he's about to throw up.

So many things wrong here…Meg, quit it! Meg giggles, dragging Dean's fingernails across Sam's chest, and it seems like this is the point where Sam snaps, because he stands up, whirling on Dean.

"First of all, eww," Sam mutters, jabbing a finger in Dean's direction, "and secondly, I've had just about enough already of this guy because let's face it – just because I don't have a soul doesn't mean I don't get annoyed, alright, and – damn it!" Meg just blinks at Sam as he turns his head up and yells; "Gabriel! Get your ass down here now!"

Dean thinks the only reason Gabriel actually shows up is because he likes not doing what the Winchesters expect him to do.

The supposed-to-be-dead Trickster has his arms folded across his chest, head cocked to one side, weight on one leg. "Heya boys," he purrs, grinning widely. "What can I do ya for?"

"Let us out," Sam demands, but Meg's making Dean frown.

"Why aren't you dead?"

Gabriel's eyes flash to Dean, and then he blinks. "Why are you possessed?"

"It's a long story."

"You guys have time."

"No, we don't, listen -." Sam inhales slowly, obviously trying to calm himself down, and Dean just has time to think bitterly that he has no problem with all the negative emotions, but honestly all the nice things – no, that requires a soul. Stupid soul. "What the hell?"

Gabriel raises an eyebrow. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Gabriel, just -."

"And how do you know my real name?"

The Winchesters stare at the Archangel for a really long time. Gabriel looks a little ill at ease. "What's the last thing you remember?" Sam asks softly, frowning a little. He's got his 'Putting pieces of the puzzle' together face on.

Gabriel raises an eyebrow. "What's it to you, Gigantor?"

"Why have you trapped us here?"

"Honestly? For shits and giggles."

"But…you're supposed to be dead."

Gabriel blinks. "Yeah, I got told about that." He throws his arms out either side. "Apparently you two yahoos were responsible for my death too, but lookie here, I'm back, alright? Back from the dead and ready to live it large, and you two –" He pointed at Sam and Dean with his forefinger and pinky, making a kind of spiderman gesture. "-are top of my list."

"But we…we were trying to…" Sam's stuttering, looking to Dean for help but Dean's fucked if he knows what to say. This Gabriel's acting weird and not in the normal kind of weird way.

"There was a point last time," Dean says, Meg repeating his words. "You wanted us to play our roles last time in letting the Apocalypse happen. Now what is the point?"

Gabriel blinks. "What do you mean, 'last time'?" he demands, frowning a little now, looking at the Winchesters as though they've gone insane.

"Dean! Sam!" The three men turn to the door in the room just in time for Castiel to storm through, exasperation and anger on his face. "Where have you two -?" He stops, catching sight of Gabriel. "Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

"How is he back?"

"We don't -."

"Apparently -."

"Shut up! Everyone just…Listen, Gabriel. The Apocalypse isn't happening anymore, you do know that, right?"

"What do you mean, it's not happening? How long was I dead for?"

"Almost two years, man."

"Gabriel, what are you doing here?"

"I'm resurrected, apparently."

"Didn't you know?"

"There is no stirring in Heaven about Gabriel's return."

Dean, Sam and Castiel share a look, and then all look back to Gabriel, who holds his hands up defensively. "Alright, look, I don't know what kind of acid you all have been huffing but the last thing I remember is conjuring up the Incredible Hulk to screw with a guy and then apparently I was killed."

"Um…Gabriel, you weren't," Sam says emphatically. "You lived for a while after that, and then Lucifer killed you."

"Lucifer?" Gabriel shakes his head. "No – you guys did. Unless you said 'Yes'. But if that's the case then. Okay, I'm sorry, but am I the only one who sees Dean's little demon friend and Sam's weird emptiness? What the hell is going on?"

"Dean got possessed."

"Sam lost his soul when he jumped in the Cage."

Gabriel blinks again. "He jumped into the Cage."

"Yes," Castiel says, rolling his eyes in an exasperated way, because they don't have time for this. Instead of explaining everything, he touches two fingers to Gabriel's head. The Angels go silent as Castiel replays the last two years to Gabriel – Elysian Fields, Michael and Lucifer's face-off, Sam overpowering Lucifer, the Cage, Sam's resurrection, the Angelic Civil War, The Brothers' Reunion, and their current predicament. Gabriel sways a little when Castiel steps away.

"Hold up. You expect me to believe that Sam overpowered Lucifer, when Dean-o here can't even take over his own body again?" he asks in disbelief, pointing to the older Winchester.

Meg smiles. "I've sealed myself in here for the time being, until I get Crowley's head on a stick."

"Crowley…" Gabriel's expression suddenly changes – his eyes go dark and his face smoothes out in understanding. "That bastard."

"He's trying to take over Purgatory, and holding Sam's soul as ransom. We are trying to get it back, and if we kill Crowley, then Meg will vacate Dean's body," Castiel says softly, and Gabriel stares off into space for a moment. Actually, he's staring at Sam, and it's making him a little uncomfortable, with Gabriel staring at his chest and kind of through it, tapping his finger against his lower lip.

"Okay," he finally says. "I'm in." A snap of his fingers and the room disappears. The Winchesters are in the motel room they are meant to be in. "So, you'll need a weapon and someone willing to go into the Cage."

"I was going to use the Battering Ram, and go in and retrieve Sam's soul myself," Castiel says.

Gabriel fixes him with a look, noticing how Castiel's eyes flicker over to Dean for a moment, then back and away. He purses his lips. "Nah. I'll go into the Cage. Lord knows what being exposed to two Archangel Graces will be like – I should do it. Do you know where the weapon is?"

Castiel nods.

"Awesome. Then what are we waiting for?"

Snap.

Gabriel doesn't remember, really, confronting Lucifer. He doesn't remember the feeling of sharing space with his beloved, lost brother again, and he doesn't remember the heat of Lucifer's Grace and the chill of his knife running through his vessel. It's been a long time since Gabriel remembers touching any of his Brothers and so, when they successfully retrieve the weapon and head to the sight of the Cage's opening, back where the brothers had been what seems like forever ago, Gabriel isn't prepared for the feeling of it. It damn near breaks him.

He does, however, take solace in knowing that he was right, and that Castiel wouldn't have been able to handle it.

The Cage is like a barren room, and there's light everywhere. Two lights, huddled together in one corner of the room, bright and powerful and burning, and there's a smaller one on the other side, curled up in a defensive way, trying to protect itself and make itself as small as possible. Gabriel isn't surprised by what he sees – Michael and Lucifer were the Firsts, the closest of all the Angels in Heaven. They loved the way humans loved. It was the way God made them before he perfected the design, and then went back to the drawing board when creating humanity.

He enters the cage warily, but he does not get attacked. The lights shift a little and they recognize him, overcome with the feeling of joy at his presence.

Gabriel.

Brother.

Light, warmth and peace surround Gabriel as his Brothers embrace him, hold him close to them and pet his wings, stroke his hair, and envelop him in their unending love and loyalty, and he lets himself relax against them for a little while before he remembers himself – the Ram won't last forever and if he doesn't move fast then both he and Sam will be trapped here forever.

When he tries to move away, though, the lights don't let him. They follow and manifest themselves into semi-human forms, taking the shape of their last vessels. Gabriel's heart clenches at the sight of them, beaten and bruised by each other's hands.

Why are you here?

I'm rescuing Sam, he replies, wings curling out behind him in preparation for defense.

Michael almost laughs. We won't hurt you, Gabriel.

Won't you stay with us? Lucifer coaxes, and Gabriel doesn't remember being killed by his big brother. He only remembers Lucifer as he was – the Morning Star – bright and beautiful and forever-lasting. But he sighs and pushes himself away, going over to Sam's soul and cradling the thing to his chest.

You've damaged him, he says softly, and there's an edge to his voice that he doesn't understand, doesn't quite have a reason for. His Brothers nod. Will you help me heal him? Please? You can be alone again, together again.

He prays that his Brothers will see sense, and maybe it's the promise of their eternity together again – just them, with no God and no Angels and no Demons or distractions. Just two Brothers. Maybe it's that promise that makes them see mercy in their hearts, and they reach out towards Sam's soul, touching the trembling, broken thing, and take away the wounds they themselves dealt. They are the only ones who can, and they do – Sam's soul begins to glow brightly in Gabriel's arms as they heal him, taking away the horrible black sin of Hell and leaving only purity behind.

Gabriel's trembling with gratitude by the time they pull away. Thank you, Brothers, he whispers.

Lucifer smiles. Take good care of him, Gabriel, he whispers, and then hugs his little brother closer, enveloping him in the tight enfolds of his wings, and then Gabriel's being pulled away from him, back out through the weakness in the cage. He holds Sam's soul tightly to his chest, unwilling to let it have even an inch of freedom until he is safely out the other side.

Meg and Castiel go to Crowley's compound. It's actually stupidly easy, easy enough to get inside. So easy that Dean senses a trap and he's not wrong, but they've got an Angel on their side and Castiel has no problem zapping Dean and Meg out of the danger when the Hell Hounds are released, or when Demons jump them, or when Crowley finally catches them, confronting them.

The demon does not look happy. "Looks like you made it out," he mutters, cocking his head to one side.

"Your plan was delightfully flawed," Meg preens, grinning, and Crowley narrows his eyes at her.

Then, he smirks. "Well then, what now?" he asks, fixing Meg with a 'Your Move' kind of look, and Meg looks over to Castiel, who meets Dean's eyes, swallows, and then disappears. Crowley laughs. "Looks like it's just you and me cupcake. Shall we dance?"

"I do not think that will be necessary," Castiel says from behind Crowley, and the demon turns around just in time to get punched in the jaw, sending him sprawling to the floor. "How dare you?" the Angel growls, advancing on the demon, "to raise an Archangel from the grave just so he'll do your dirty work. You arrogant stain on creation." Castiel conjures, from somewhere, a black canvas sack. Crowley's eyes widen, looking at it.

"What is that?" he asks, voice low with uncertainty.

Castiel cocks his head to one side, smiling a little. "Don't you recognize yourself?" he asks, and Crowley screams as the bag suddenly bursts into flames, his bones burning to ash within seconds. Dean winces inside his mind when he sees the demon disintegrate in front of his eyes. Meg, too, becomes a little wary, because that bone thing was meant to be a myth – it was meant to be farce. Apparently not.

It seems very…anticlimactic, really, when Angel and demon stare at the ashes of what Crowley has become, and then at each other. There's a kind of finality in Castiel's eyes that lets Meg know he's done indulging her.

She's not wrong; "Leave his body now," Castiel demands, voice low and harsh and Dean can feel the power in it. It vibrates through his very being.

Meg doesn't hesitate – she lifts Dean's arm and, with the demon killing blade they'd taken from Sam because, let's face it, they would need it more, slashes through the sigil she's burned into Dean's forearm. Dean's overcome with an urge to gag as Meg's essence makes a break for it through his mouth, and he throws his head back, screaming as she leaves in a thick column of black smoke, because it burns. It feels like his throat has been opened up and someone's force-fed him salt and iodine. He screams because he finally can – because he can feel control coming back over his body and God help him, it feels good. When Meg's finally gone he falls to his knees, sobbing because he can now, his hands clenched tightly enough against the pain because he's able to. His throat burns, his gut aches, but his neck. His neck is an open acid wound. He doesn't have much time to enjoy his renewed freedom before the pain of his delayed werewolf transformation takes him over, and he only vaguely feels wings encasing him and a gentle touch to his forehead before the agony makes him black out.

Sam's soul is put back into his body without fight. The thing goes into Sam's mouth when Gabriel holds the glowing ball up, flowing through like silver energy, and Gabriel watches as it settles in Sam's chest and branches outward, reconnecting with a body it had been torn from, and Sam gasps, head thrown back, spine arching upwards, because it's like sensory overload. Anger, Betrayal, Hatred, Love, Fear, Sadness, Happiness, Joy, all floods into him at once. Everything he's lived through in the past year since losing his soul, it all comes crashing back, but with emotions this time. Rejection and sadness, understanding over his brother's reaction to his reappearance. Horror when Castiel reached inside a child's soul, bringing him excruciating pain. Annoyance over the fact that Castiel was ready to come to Dean's call first time, but not his. Pain when he's meant to feel it, worry and anguish, happiness, joy when his brother finally joins him on the Hunt even when it's not under the best of circumstances. Fear when his brother begins to change, and Sam shares his sense of betrayal when Sam just watched it happen.

He blacks out from so much of it at once, and when he comes to, Gabriel's there. Gabriel. Sadness, Anger, Hatred, Relief, Joy, Affection, Indulgence, Love. Love. Sam gasps, his soul lurching in his chest along with his heartbeat when he looks into the glowing hazel eyes of the resurrected Archangel, and Gabriel smiles a little, brushing a hand through his head.

"Welcome back, kiddo," he whispers, and Sam tries to force a sound out through a mouth that's gone dry from screaming. The touch on his head feels like coming home and Sam whimpers a little, this whole feeling thing brand new to him after so long being numb, but Gabriel understands. "Rest up, Sammy, okay?"

"Gabriel." It comes out raspy, weak, like Sam can't get enough air into his lungs to breathe the name. He reaches out with a trembling hand and it comes to rest on the Archangel's knee. "Stay."

Gabriel raises an eyebrow at him, pursing his lips in thought, and then he smiles. "Okay, kiddo. I'll stay."

Dean's in agony.

He can't think – can't breathe except to scream, and even then he's trying with all his might not to, so all that air's getting wasted. He feels like he's back in Hell again and there's no control of his body – his pain is at the whim of someone else – something else. The wolf. The werewolf bite. It burns at his neck and he wants to rip his own throat out just to detach himself from it.

There are warm hands on him and a voice in his ear. It's reassuring and deep and comforting and Dean wants to relax, he really does, but he can't. He can't because it hurts. How werewolves remain ignorant of what they are astounds him because the transformation is a bitch.

Help me, he wants to cry out, but he can't, and it's terrifying. He doesn't have control anymore and he needs it back. Fuck, it's been too long and he's been given his body back only to have it taken away again, and he can't handle it. He can't. He won't.

He lashes out when someone tries to touch him, won't let anyone take advantage of him in his weakened state, but the touch keeps coming back, from all sides no matter how much he tries to fight it. He yells incoherently, thrashing about again and has just enough presence of mind to realize he's laying on something. Something that itches and tangles with him. Sheets. Bed sheets.

Forcing his eyes open is a chore but he manages to do it, blinking past the bone-deep pain and taking in his surroundings. His senses are getting assaulted from all sides – smell is on overload. There's laundry from down the road and gasoline and lavender from the soap they use to wash the sheets, and sweat and new paint and solvents. There's leather and gunpowder and oil and ozone and –

-Ozone.

"Cas," he gasps out, turning on his side and he sees the Angel there, watching him. There's pity in his eyes and anger in the set of his mouth. "Cas, what's -." He growls around another shudder-lance of pain, arching his back, jaw clenching to try and escape it. Any more words he tries to force out just come out muffled behind animal sounds – growls, snarls, Dean feels himself slipping, feels a dirty, wrong, animal part of his mind taking over and he doesn't want that – fuck, he doesn't want that. "Cas, get away." He's trying to warn the Angel but of course the stubborn bastard doesn't listen.

There's suddenly a body on him and Dean snarls at it, trying to push it away but it stays firm. The scent of ocean spray and ozone gets a little stronger and Dean growls in frustration to realize that Castiel is pinning him down – even more so to find that he's doing it successfully. The Angel's hands find his wrists and hold him down, the Angel straddling his stomach with his deceptively heavy frame, legs tangling with Dean's and holding him down there too, taking away Dean's leverage.

The werewolf snarls at Castiel, but the Angel doesn't falter. His eyes are dark and determined, and he leans down, his lips inches away from Dean's, and the werewolf's breath stutters a little, the part of Dean that is still human rebelling against wanting this, against responding to this treatment.

"I lost you once, Dean Winchester," Castiel growls, "and even if you never forgive me, I will make sure that I will never lose you again."

Dean's senses explode. Castiel's hands become bruising on his wrists, holding him down as the Hunter howls at the sudden wave of bright, burning light, and Castiel closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, and focusing – he searches inside of Dean and finds the darkness of the werewolf's taint. It is thick, viscous black amongst the silver-green light of Dean's liquid soul, and Castiel focuses his Grace on it. He is a warrior of God and this is just another enemy – another darkness to conquer.

Dean gasps at the feeling of Castiel removing the werewolf darkness from his soul – he feels like he's getting ripped apart all over again, and Castiel's the one that keeps doing it. He cries out, struggling harder, wanting to get away, because Castiel keeps hurting him and he can't seem to get past that fact, on a base, prey-animal level, that Castiel keeps bringing pain and he wants to get away from it. Even when the darkness inside of him starts to leave, drawn out by Castiel's Grace to be destroyed and his soul pours into the open wounds, sealing them and healing him, he can't seem to recognize that Castiel is helping him.

By the time Castiel has healed Dean's soul, the Hunter's a shivering, whimpering mess. There are tears staining his face and making his eyes glitter brightly, his expression a mask of pain and fear and, when Castiel opens his eyes and meet Dean's, the Hunter shudders and turns to look away, unwilling and unable to meet Castiel's eyes. The Angel swallows and sits up, releasing Dean's bruised wrists but not without healing those first as well, and then he disappears in a flutter of wings, leaving Dean more alone and frightened and wounded than ever.

Gabriel brings Sam to Dean the next day. Both brothers look a little worse for wear, but Sam's smiling, and there's concern in his eyes, and Dean damn near bursts into tears all over again when he hugs the living stuffing out of his brother.

The new Sam is everything Dean missed and loved around his brother and, for a long while, Dean can do nothing but hug him and stare at him, as though making sure he's still there, still real. It's a lot more 'bonding' and 'chick-flick' moments than Dean's ever done but he needs it, and Sam – God bless him – Sam doesn't call him out on it or tease him for it.

The brothers have a lot of healing to do, and they both know it will take a long, long time. Dean doesn't even know what to say to Sam, but Sam has questions – he would.

"Dean…you were possessed the whole time?" he asks softly, hesitance and wariness in his eyes and damn it, Dean missed that so much. Even despite the fact that the question makes him uncomfortable and wary, knowing where it will lead, he's so glad that Sam's trying to exercise tact that he doesn't actually mind it so much.

"Since the werewolf hunt. She found me half-gored and freshly bitten. The wolves slashed right through my tattoo and she made a comfy home for herself in there."

Sam winces in sympathy, because he knows what having Meg inside of him is like and it's no freaking picnic. "Dean…how aware were you?"

Dean closes his eyes. "Almost all the time, Sammy," he whispers softly, turning his head away from his brother. "I mean…I don't remember the trip from the werewolves to the motel, and I don't remember…most of that night. But everything else."

"Most of?" Sam repeats, and Dean shivers a little, looking down. The brothers are on their own beds in the motel room and Dean feels his dip when Sam sits next to him, placing a warm hand on his shoulder, and Dean hates himself a little for tensing at his touch, wary around Sam like a Goddamn rape victim. "…Did you want it?"

Dean swallows, putting his head in his hands, rubbing his temples. "I don't know."

A pause. "Do you want it now?"

Dean's eyes flash to Sam's, sees them only filled with concern and brotherly affection, and he laughs a little shakily, running a hand through his hair. "Every time he's touched me in the past couple of days, it's hurt, Sammy. It shouldn't have…been like that." He can feel tears building up behind his eyes, but he's not sad – he's angry. "Fucking Meg, I swear if it's the last thing I do I'm hunting that bitch down and making her pay."

"Dean, I'm sure for how bad you feel, Castiel feels a thousand times worse," Sam says gentle, coaxingly to Dean like he's a wounded animal. "Imagine it. He thought it was you, that you wanted him, and now for all he knows you were screaming at him to stop."

"I was."

"Even so. I think you owe it to him to talk about it. Even if you tell him something he already knows. And you might just surprise yourself. Please, Dean – just talk to him. I mean…it'll be awkward if you guys can't even be in the same room anymore if we're going to keep hunting, and -." Dean shoots Sam a look, because that's the kind of unfeeling logic that he's gotten enough of from Old Sam, thank you. Sam bites his lip and blushes a little, looking down. "Sorry. It'll take some getting used to – feeling things again."

"How do you feel?" Dean asks, meeting his little brother's eyes, and Sam smiles.

"I feel alive, Dean. I feel like myself again and I like it." Sam pulls Dean into a hug, then, pressing his face against Dean's neck. "Thank you."

Every fiber of his being screams against doing it, but Dean's not a coward. He's in control now and he's going to keep it, even if on the inside he can feel his soul tremble at the idea of calling Cas, of talking face to face with him, mano-y-mano.

"Cas," he whispers, his breath misting in the cold night air. "Please, come here. I need…We need to talk." And Dean's surprised when, a cut of wings through the air later, Castiel is there, a few feet from him, watching Dean like he's expecting to get attacked.

The two men stand in silence for a moment, Dean watching the floor and Castiel watching Dean, and Dean doesn't know what to say. He'd had this whole speech planned out and now that Castiel's here he can't think of a single word of it.

When he finally has the courage to lift his eyes, he's struck by what he sees. Castiel looks pained, looks so guilty, his shoulders are slumped and his head hangs. He looks like he's being crushed under the weight of his guilt and Dean can't have that – won't have that, because it's not Castiel's fault.

"Cas," he whispers again, and the Angel's head snaps up to meet his eyes, and Dean's caught off guard for a moment by just how brightly Castiel's eyes shine, how blue they are, how filled with sorrow they are. "We need to talk," he repeats, just because he can't think of a single other thing to say.

"I'm here, Dean. Talk."

"I just…" Dean sighs after a moment, and takes a step forward. Castiel doesn't retreat but he is watching Dean like a wild, cornered animal. His jaw twitches a little. "Whatever you're thinking, I want you to stop thinking it." Castiel's brow furrows. "I don't want you to be guilty, or be in pain because you were taken advantage of, okay?"

"I believe it was you who was taken advantage of, Dean."

The Hunter flinches at the cold tone, full of self-hatred. "Listen, Castiel – what Meg did. It was wrong. She used you and she used me to get her own jollies off, and I won't lie, alright? It was painful, and I didn't want it."

"I understand," Castiel replies in a monotone, stepping back from Dean now, hands clenched by his sides, averting his gaze. "I'm sorry you had to suffer because of my own selfish desires."

Dean pauses for a moment. "What? No, I mean…Cas. I'm not saying this right." He lets out a frustrated little noise and it draws Castiel's attention. "What I meant was…I didn't want it…with her there. It shouldn't have happened…like that."

"…What do you mean?" the Angel asks, eyes guarded, but he can't hide the hope in his voice, and Dean takes heart in that. It gives him the courage to close the distance between them.

"I mean that, when she touched you, it should have been me," he says, spreading his fingertips out along Castiel's jaw. The Angel watches him impassively but Dean can feel the vessel's pulse flying under his fingertips. "When she combed her fingers through your hair, and said all those things to you, it should have been me." His other hand drags through the fine hairs above Castiel's ear, and he smiles when the Angel leans into the touch, very slightly. "When you whispered my name, and put your hands on me, and looked at me like you loved me, she shouldn't have been in the way."

Castiel's eyes are liquid blue now, his lips parted gently, panting against Dean's skin when the Hunter leans in, letting their foreheads rest together, and the hand not in Castiel's hair rests instead on the side of the Angel's neck, his thumb gently brushing along Castiel's jaw. "It should have been me touching you, and tasting you, and loving you. And I know we can't forget what she did, but we can heal and move on from it."

"You don't fear me." When Castiel says it, he says it like a prayer, the words ghosting past his lips and into the chilly night air, and his warm exhale skates along Dean's skin, making the Hunter shiver. Castiel's hands mirror Dean's on the Hunter's body, dragging and knotting his fingers in Dean's too-short hair, and the other hand slides along Dean's neck and shoulder until he reaches the handprint, and when he seals his hand over it, it's like the last piece slides into place, and Dean gasps. "You don't hate me."

"Never, Cas, never," Dean replies, unwilling to break the moment by raising his voice even a little. "I want you. You keep me safe – I know you do, and you're always there when I really need you, and I…I guess I'm kinda in love with you."

Castiel's smile is like the sun coming up. "I love you too, Dean," he rasps out, and Dean smiles widely, his eyes falling closed for the briefest moment, and Castiel's hand tightens on Dean's shoulder, forcing his eyes open again. "Can I kiss you, Dean?" the Angel whispers.

Dean nods, his exhale coming out a little shakily, and when Castiel's lips slant over his, it's perfect. He discards all traitorous thoughts of how Castiel learned to kiss like that and lets himself enjoy the moment. Both hands go to Castiel's hair and pull a little bit, and Castiel's body curves into his in a perfect mesh of muscle and flesh. Dean's so hyper-aware of the Angel that for a brief, stupid, terrifying moment, he thinks he's possessed all over again.

Castiel's lips have Dean feeling tingly all over when the Angel pulls away, letting him breathe, and Dean laughs a little, happier than he's been in a while – giddy with it, in fact. But he's shivering and Cas notices, and he flies them into an empty motel room, out of the cold. Dean rumbles his appreciation for that and presses his hands under Castiel's trench coat, around his Angel's back and to the dip of his spine. Castiel shudders.

"Cas," Dean whispers, "did she see your wings?"

The Angel stills for a moment, and then shakes his head. "Can I see them?"

There's no hesitance. Castiel's wings explode from his body, ripping through the clothes he's wearing with ease. They arch high up over his head, six of them, graceful and beautiful. The two lowest pair are smaller and they come out where Dean had his hands, and the Hunter traces the curve of them absently, hooking his chin over Castiel's shoulder to admire them. The smallest pair – those that he's touching – are the purest white he's ever seen. They flutter at the slightest movement of air and look so delicate. He hears Castiel tell him in a hushed voice that they're for balance and changing directions during flight. The second pair arch out above them and are pure onyx. They are the pair that Castiel showed Dean in their first meeting. Amidst the black is dark purple and royal blue, the same color as Castiel's eyes, and they're just as beautiful. They are stronger and larger, and for flight.

The third pair are unfathomably large – they span out way beyond the confines of the motel room and Dean can barely see their outline, but when he buries his hands in the space they're meant to be, Castiel shudders visibly and he can feel the silky soft texture of feathers. They are, Castiel says, for fighting and defense, and they are the ones Castiel wraps Dean up in whenever they fly, and whenever Castiel is protecting him from dangers. They cannot manifest on this plane because doing so would make them too weak to be of use – there isn't a material strong enough to make them exist.

Dean loses himself in touching Castiel's wings, tracing their arches and playing with the tips of his feathers, carding a few wayward feathers back into place. Every time he does, Castiel clutches at him and whimpers a little.

Dean smiles. "Sensitive, Angel?" he rasps into Castiel's ear, and the Angel jerks in his hands and gasps, nodding frantically. "And I'll be the only one who gets to see them, feel them like this. This, Cas, this is all me, and it's only ever gonna be me, isn't it?"

Castiel can only give a whiny, needy little moan in response, and nod, and Dean smiles, placing a kiss to the Angel's sweaty neck. This, right here, is how it should have gone the first time, and when Castiel finally has enough of the foreplay, and pushes Dean down onto the bed, tearing his clothes away; when Dean buries his fingers in the Angel's oil-soaked wings and tugs on them almost savagely, tearing Castiel apart in a kinder version of what's been done to him; when Angel and Hunter finally come together, unite the way it should have happened, it's all Dean, and it's perfect.

"You know," Gabriel begins, still combing his fingers through Sam's hair as the human lightly dozes next to him, "I've been thinking."

"That's a dangerous pastime," Sam jokes lightly, earning him a pinch on the side. He smacks lazily at Gabriel's hand but doesn't otherwise move. "What have you been thinking about?"

"I've been…remembering some things," Gabriel says slowly. "I remember…that motel Hell you guys got trapped in, and fighting my brother. I remember getting stabbed."

"I'm sorry," Sam says, because he's not sure what else to say.

"I also remember my motives," Gabriel replies, and there's a seriousness in his voice that has Sam turning, looking into the Archangel's eyes. "I wanted to stand for something I believed in – a cause I believed in, and even though you two chuckleheads almost proved me wrong, I think I chose right. I had faith in you two. I remember thinking that, if anyone could screw over the Devil, it would be you. Sam." He moves his hand away from Sam's head, propping his head up on one elbow and staring down at the younger Winchester. "And now I've held your soul in my arms, and seen the aftermath of what you've done, and I know I was right."

Sam's smiling, and blushing a little at Gabriel's words, biting his lower lip. "I'm glad you believed in us too. If not for your sacrifice, or for giving us that lead on the rings, we never would have done it. We owe you big time."

Gabriel grins. "And I got your soul back."

Sam rolls his eyes. "That too."

"So…how would you consider making it up to me?" Gabriel asks in a teasing tone, wiggling his eyebrows, and Sam cocks his head to one side, looking at Gabriel with a confused expression. Before Sam can respond Gabriel leans down and places a light peck on his lips, and Sam just blinks up at him as Gabriel watches for his reaction.

"…Really?" is all Sam can say, and it comes out weak.

Gabriel laughs. "I like big packages," he says with another leer, and Sam rolls his eyes, smirking a little. "And I think any guy who's willing to sell his soul and his life to save the world ought to be pretty okay, track record or not."

"You're an ass," Sam says, but there's no heat behind it. He's grinning like a fool and he knows it and he doesn't care.

"A fine one, at that," Gabriel replies with a smirk, and when he leans down again this time, Sam rises up to meet him, and it's a dirty, messy, hot clash of lips and tongue and teeth and it has Sam moaning before he can stop himself. "Knew you'd see things my way, Sammy."

"Of course," Sam replies, voice muffled since Gabriel has decided he doesn't like to stop kissing Sam now that he's started, and Sam's letting him, reciprocating, knotting his hands in Gabriel's thick blonde hair. "After all, I do owe you."