It hurts, God it hurts- the thorns breaking through the veil that has been covering your eyes since God knows when; the ripping away of hardened flesh, leaving nothing behind but a red, pulsing you. And there is the light, burning so very bright ahead, and you shut your eyes because you cannot, no,will not see the truth. What good is finding that which has been hidden away for millenia?

You wonder when this all began. Perhaps it was with that God-forsaken kiss; it felt too clean, you should have taken that as a sign. Or maybe it was even before then, all the way back when you surrounded him with the closest thing to hellfire you could find, and taunted him with all the sick, twisted relish. you could muster…only for him to make you doubt yourself for the first time in centuries.

But now he's here, calling you beautiful of all the idiotic, stupid things he could think of. The lovesick sap. But it bothers you. It bothers you, and it stings with all the pain both hell and earth can provide. Because through the pretty-faced, dolled up meatsuit, he can see the jagged, torn, twisted, macabre work of art that is your face. Your essence. And if it were a jeer, or a mock, you wouldn't have cared less, hell, you'd probably play along.

But he's so fucking sincere it actually hurts. It irritates you. It makes you want to slice into a thousand writhing corpses, and drown yourself in the screams of the damned, and throw yourself into the blood of the fallen.

Because in the darkest, most despicable parts of your heart, you know that you are changing. You are rising, as he falls.

Later on, as you both team up with the Brothers Grimm, in the midst of probably the most chaotic war between heaven and hell since the Apocolypse, he turns to you. He's got blood splattered over that stupid trenchcoat of his, hands releasing a freshly smote demon tumbling to the ground. And his eyes look so questioning, so ridiculously naive in the midst of the shouts and screams of the dying.

"Meg, you remember, don't you?" He asks quietly, and suddenly its as if there isn't bloodshed all around them, and there isn't the clanging of swords and the shatter of guns smoldering in the distance. And she hates herself, because goddammit, she'd never should have reached this point. Never should have reached this place.

"No thanks to you, asshat," you snap, but both you and him know that there is something bubbling inside of you that hasn't stirred since your spirit entered the realms of Hades.

A fallen angel discovering humanity, and a renegade demon remembering it. How fucking cliche is that.