Her blood was on his hands, but he was not the one who killed her.
He clutched onto her cold and limp body and he cried.
He cried.
Why was he crying for such a creature?
Why feel sadness for the death of something so ugly and disgusting? A Demoness?
But, she wasn't ugly or disgusting; not to him.
She could have been thought of as a tool towards his successes, or even his friend; but nevermore his enemy.
His tears fell from his perfectly blue eyes and dripped off his trembling chin, rolling slowly down his tan trench coat.
This was Crowley's handiwork.
Crowley.
How dare he. How dare the King of Hell lay a finger on her, his friend.
He was furious. He easily lifted her old corpse, only a meatsuit, and gently placed it on the couch next to him. He longed to hear that nickname she often gave to him; he wanted so much to see her smug smile and that twinkling gaze of her brown eyes.
He knew what he was going to do.
He gathered the necessary ingredients, for he had already memorized the recipe and the incantation.
In a secluded area, careful not to injure anyone, except maybe himself, he did that which he knew he shouldn't do: Castiel opened the door to Purgatory, once again.
And thus, he leapt in.
The door remained open, and he knew he had only a short amount of time before the door closed; then he would be trapped once again in this Hell for the Supernatural.
With swiftness of flight, he searched, everywhere and anywhere for her soul.
"Meg!" he called out, frantically, for the door had begun to close.
"Meg!" His voice rung with desperation and a heaviness of heart.
He had to leave now if he was ever to return to Dean in the world of the living.
So he turned away from his search until he heard a small voice call to him.
"Castiel?" it called, sounding befuddled.
"Castiel!" Meg shouted and Castiel followed her voice. He found her tattered and dirty, looking pained and relieved as she held her hands up to him, pleading with her eyes for him to lift her up.
Without a second thought, Castiel scooped her up and cradled her in his arms and bolted for the door, the realization that something could have climbed out setting his mind to a frenzy of half-formed plans to deal with the things that may have escaped.
Through the door they flew and the door closed.
Meg let out a blood-curdling cry of pain. Castiel looked her over and noticed black acidic blood oozing onto his arm, burning his skin, and dripping from where her leg should have been.
He hadn't made it out in time.
Meg had lost her leg.
She clutched hard onto his trench coat and Castiel looked worriedly around to see that indeed a few monsters had escaped and they began to circle around the Angel and his wounded Demoness.
In one swift movement, the Warrior Angel absorbed Meg's soul and wielded his Angel Blade, a fierce fire in his blue eyes.
Holding Meg gently within, though her Demonic soul tormented him, he killed off the monsters, sending their spirits back to Purgatory one by one.
They lunged at him, they slashed his throat, his arms, and his legs, but his will prevailed.
One by one they fell and Castiel staggered.
One by one they died and finally Castiel fell to his lacerated knees, the Victor.
He rested for a moment before he pressed on and flew back to Meg's meatsuit, where he had left it.
Her blood still stung his skin but he didn't mind; her soul inside of him agonized him, but he pushed through it.
He sent her soul into the body and she gasped awake, clutching at her leg.
"Kinda crowded in there," she commented, her voice alighting on his ears gently in that slight drawl of hers.
He wasn't finished: there was still one more thing that remained to be done.
Castiel reached into himself and pulled out half of his Grace, painstaking as it was to do so, and shuddering, he neared the light blue orb towards Meg, who shied away at the sight of it.
"What're you doing, Cas?" she asked suspiciously.
"This is going to hurt." Castiel said in that gravelly voice of his.
With that, he drove the orb of light into her body, into her soul, and listened, with tears in his eyes, to her screams of the present torture.
His Grace purified her, changed the nature of what she was with its light. Two boney wings sprouted out from between her shoulder blades, spattering blood everywhere.
Flesh quickly grew over the bones and then fluffy gray down and feathers popped until she had two magnificent wings arching behind her. Blue light shone out of her eyes and mouth and her veins glowed white with supernatural stress.
One moment more and then the light ceased.
Slowly Meg's eyes opened. Castiel displayed a small smile.
"Hello, Clarence," she said with a grin, sitting up leisurely. She felt different, cleaner, if that was possible.
"Why do I feel so…" she searched for an appropriate word. "Heaven...ly?"
"I gave you half my Grace," Castiel said.
"Wait a minute…" Meg was amazed. "You don't mean to say that...I'm…"
"An Angel. Yes," Castiel said, his smile widening.
"How…?"
"I have implanted half of my Grace in you and purified your soul," Castiel explained. He didn't know what he was expecting of her, but he did know that he certainly wasn't expecting her to smile in return. She was no longer a Demoness and she was happy.
He was happy. He saved a friend; he tore her away from Purgatory.
She noticed the feeling of her wings and willed one to bow in front of her so that she may look at it.
"Wow…" she breathed, stroking her gray feathers.
Castiel did not expect the next turn of events as Meg leaned forward and kissed him. The kiss was pure and different from the one they had shared before: a kiss before death. This kiss was exchanged because of the joy of life.
Meg pulled away and stroked his hair, uncharacteristically.
"Well," she said, her slight drawl slow and calming. "Thanks for saving me, Clarence."
He had saved her, from her Hell, from her demise; from herself as a Demoness. It would no longer be such a trial for her to do what was right, and she was stronger for it. She could forget what it was to be a Demon but not what it was to be human, and she was stronger for it.
This time, he kissed her, leaning over her on the couch. She smiled.
Her blood stained his hands and, in a way, he was the one who killed her.