a/n: I realized I did forget to include Gabriel in my offer of monkeyshines, so naturally he is included. He's kind of the king of monkeyshines, isn't he?
No specific episodes referenced here, kids, unless you count a passing one to 5x10. And, really, if you guys haven't seen that one, come on. Netflix. Free trial. Go nuts!
Shameless review whore here. We loves them, precious.
Chapter 7: Voices in the Dark
And the way that you answered
When you knew I was gone.
-The Airborne Toxic Event, "Half of Something Else"
"You're kidding," Dean said, throwing himself back in his chair. "You and Cas. Together. Like, together together? Like…sex?!"
She rolled her eyes. "Well we weren't baking cookies, pretty boy," she said with a smirk.
"How long did this go on?" Sam said.
"A few months. From a week or so after that whole thing with Crowley in the warehouse until just before they opened the door to Purgatory."
"A few months?" Dean said. "That's like close to a year."
Meg shrugged a shoulder and sipped her beer.
"I can't believe he didn't tell me about this."
"Seems like he didn't tell you a lot of things, that year," she said.
"Yeah, but…this? I was trying to get him laid for ages. Hell, I woulda been proud of him!" He grimaced. "Can't say I necessarily agree with his taste, but, hey. Sam had Ruby, I had that Amazon chick, Cas had you. We all make mistakes."
Sam winced and made a cutting gesture as the "mistake" in question went still. A moment later she slammed her bottle down on the table and sprang to her feet.
"You listen to me, you arrogant son of a bitch. You don't have a fucking clue. Not a clue. Castiel saw something in me. I'm not saying it's there. Hell, I don't think it is. But that featherbrained idiot insisted it was, and what's more, he treated me like it was."
She shoved the heavy oak table aside as though it weighed nothing and seized Dean by his collar. When Sam surged forward, she threw up her hand to stop him. "I'm not going to hurt him. I just want to make sure he's paying attention."
She leaned down and braced herself on the armrests of Dean's chair. Her nose was nearly touching his, and he could smell the sharp, spicy scent of her perfume and pick out the gold flecks in her green eyes. "My entire existence I've been treated like a monster. That was fine with me, because I am a monster. How else would you treat me?
"But Castiel wasn't like that. He treated me differently, and because of him I saw a different way to be. I saw another path, other choices. Choices, period. I know now that I don't always have to do the terrible thing. I can be something other than what I was. I have options. I like having options.
"Cas gave me that, and no one's taking it away from me. Not you. Not Crowley. Not anyone. So next time you want to casually write me off as Castiel's little mistake, on par with your one night stand or Sam's fling with an insane cunt—sorry, Sam, but she was—you remember who he trusted when his wall fell down. He didn't even remember me, Dean, but I'm the one. Not you. Not Sam. Me."
"Are you done?" he said after a short, hard silence.
"Yeah," she said and shoved away from him. "I'm done."
"Good." He got to his feet in a casual, unhurried manner. Eyed her up and down. Then, in a movement so fluid and practiced it left her shaking, he had her in a headlock, the knife pressed against her throat. "You ever get in my face like that again, I will end you. You hear me?"
"Dean!"
"I'm not going to hurt her," he said to Sam. "I just want to make sure she's paying attention."
She let out a low, rippling laugh. "I can tell I'm out of practice. You never would've gotten the jump on me like that if I hadn't spent the last century and change chained to a wall."
He let her go and she stumbled a little in her haste to get away. "Yeah, well, you should be more careful."
"Shoulda, woulda, coulda, sugar. It's a little too late now." She was talking about so much more than one little headlock, and they all knew it, but no one was willing to say it aloud.
He tucked the knife away and frowned down at his boots. Cut his eyes at Sam and then back to her. "You really think Ruby was an insane cunt? Weren't you on the same side?"
"Hey, come on, don't we have more important—"
"Don't get me started on that crazy bitch," Meg said, cutting off Sam's halfhearted protest. "You know she was a witch when she was alive?" She shuddered. "I hate witches."
"Me too. The weird shit they get up to. What is up with that?"
"Right? A demon wants you dead, we kill you. Simple. A witch wants you dead, shit gets all freaky with bones and fluids and who the hell knows what."
"And dead is what you get if you're lucky! You might just end up spitting out cherry pits for all eternity." He shook his head. "Fuckin' witches, man."
"Fuckin' witches," she said with a grim nod.
"Oh God. I think I liked it better when you two were trying to kill each other."
"Cheer up, Sammy," Dean said and clapped his brother on the shoulder. "Looks like you get to go full-on nerd mode with this blue-lipped warlock thing. Go forth and find us brain worms!"
The idea did cheer him up, and he grinned before he could stop himself. "Er," he said as Meg and Dean shared an amused glance. He rolled his eyes and let out a snort. "Right. Brain worms and blue-lipped warlocks. What a pain in the ass."
Meg opened her mouth to say something (no doubt withering, or at least sarcastic), but instead her expression twisted and she pressed a hand against her forehead. Her body went rigid as a spasm of pain passed through her, and Dean steadied her as she wavered. "I'm fine," she said, though she didn't sound it.
"Sure," he said. "You look awesome."
"A flash?" Sam said.
"No, not really. Just a spike in the headache. I think it would be better if you hurried, though. With the books." She raised her head to offer them a barbed smile, and they stared at her.
"What?" she said. "What's wrong?"
"You're bleeding," Dean said. He reached out a hand—it trembled, they noticed, and that maybe scared them all more than anything—and brushed her full upper lip. His fingers came away red.
"It's just…it's just a nosebleed," she said. "No big deal."
"Yeah," Sam said. "Right. You're a demon. Your vessel is supposed to spring random leaks. Happens all the time."
"I thought he was the sarcastic one," she said with a glare in Dean's direction.
"We like to mix things up," Dean said. He shifted his weight and frowned at her. "Go lie down. Try to get some rest. We'll hit the books and see what we can find."
"Why are you two being so nice to me?"
They exchanged wary glances. "Because we hate Crowley and we care about Cas," Dean said. "Seems like the three of us have that in common, don't we?"
"Yeah," she said. "I guess we do." Her brows drew together over troubled green eyes. She swiped at the blood on her lip and turned away. "Thanks," she said, her back to them. "In case I forget to say it later. I know you'll do everything you can. So thanks."
"Yeah," Dean said. "You're welcome."
She disappeared into her borrowed room and closed the door with a quiet click. Sam and Dean shared another worried look.
"She's dying, Dean," Sam said.
"Yeah," he said. "I know."
"I don't know if we can stop it. It might be too late."
"I know that, too. Did you hear what she said? About Cas?"
"Yeah."
A pause.
"We have to try. For Cas."
"She said he doesn't remember her. Not like that."
He hitched a shoulder. "Doesn't matter. Part of him does, or he wouldn't have trusted her so much at the hospital. Hit those books, Sammy. Blue-lipped warlocks and brain worms."
"Yeah. Okay. You take the computer. I'll start on the archives." They lingered another moment, eyes trained on the door that had just closed between them and the ailing demon, before they split, each intent on his assigned task and preoccupied by his own troubled thoughts.
Meg stretched out on the cot in her small room and stared up at the ceiling. She could hear the boys' muffled voices through the closed door, and she found it strangely comforting. She wondered if they were talking about her. Probably. They probably thought she was dying.
She turned over to face the wall.
They were probably right. She wondered if the worm's poison would cause her to burn through another vessel. This one felt mostly okay. Honestly she was more worried for her own brain, not her meatsuit's.
She flopped onto her back again.
She missed Desdemona. The haughty little cat had never warmed up to her—and, honestly, the feeling had been mutual—but there was something comforting about being scorned by a cat. Her amber eyes seemed to have all the secrets of the universe trapped in their depths, and she'd never failed to wring a smile from Cas. Stupid cat.
"I'm tired, Clarence," she whispered into the dark. "So fucking tired. How pissed would you be if I broke my promise? On a scale of one to ten?"
Eleven. Not even an option. You're a Queen amongst your kind, Meg. Like Desdemona.
"Stupid cat," she murmured. "I should've found a really big dog and named it Iago."
That isn't funny.
"Clearly I've lost it. The worm has done its work. No more flashes. Just me, lying in the dark, hallucinating. Hearing voices."
You should have called me sooner. I would have come.
"I didn't call you at all, Clarence. I never called you."
I know. I wish you had. Just once, I wish you had.
She let out a laugh that was almost a sob. "What if you hadn't answered? I don't think I could've born it if you hadn't answered."
"For you?" he said, and she could swear his voice sounded real, not in her head at all. "If you called me, Meg, I would turn the world upside down to get to you. I would have plumbed the depths of Hell for you. If you'd only called, I would have turned back at the gates of Purgatory."
She reached out in the dark, and her hand hit something solid, something warm and corporeal. "Castiel!?" she said. Silence. She fumbled for the switch on the bedside lamp, and a moment later the room was flooded with light.
The room was empty, and she was alone. She leaned back against the pillow and squeezed her eyes shut, furious with herself for letting the worm trick her. Her head pounded, and as she tried to breathe through the pain, a familiar scent teased her exhausted senses.
It was a scent that she would know anywhere. A scent she would recognize forever. It had haunted her since the day he'd tricked her. Held her close and then thrown her in holy fire. It had clung to her old vessel from that day on, but this vessel had never been close to him. There was no way she could.…
He had been here. It hadn't been a trick. Unless…maybe she was hallucinating his scent, too? She leaned forward and braced her head in her hands. Those damn Winchesters better hurry the hell up, because she wasn't sure how much more of this she could take. Real, not real. Here, not here.
She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes and sent a prayer—her first ever—into the night.
"Castiel, you featherbrain, please. Help me. Please, Cas, I'm not sure how much longer I can hold it together. If you can hear me, put down the harp and get your ass over here. Please."
Castiel stared up at the ceiling in the darkened motel room and wondered what he was doing here. Oh, he knew the actual steps that had brought him here: the park had failed to provide any sort of respite, and even fewer answers. At some point in his existence, he'd formed the association of dark rooms and soft beds with relaxation…so he'd come to a motel.
But something was missing. The bed felt big and empty. He kept contorting his body into shapes as though to make room for something. He reached out to find the space next to him cold, and it puzzled him. The sheets smelled all wrong.
He took a handful of cotton and sniffed. No. It should smell sharp and spicy, and beneath it all a faint hint of…sulfur? Demon? Why should his sheets bear the scent of demon? He tossed the fabric away, more nonplussed than ever.
He closed his eyes and tried to find peace within himself. Angels don't sleep, of course, but at times they have been known to meditate, and it was his deep hope that he could do so now. He whispered certain words in Enochian, and eventually he relaxed enough to enter a light trance.
Castiel, you featherbrain, please…
His eyes flew open and he sat up like he'd been spring loaded. Meg…? Her voice was faint and muffled, and he couldn't get an exact fix on her location, but a gold-and-onyx thread stretched across the miles between them, and he knew he had only to follow it. She was calling him.
An instant later he found himself in a familiar office decorated in shades of white and gray. A composed redhead sat behind a wide white desk and smiled at him across its lacquered expanse. Her hands were folded and not a hair was out of place on her perfectly coifed head. The only sign of her anger was a tiny muscle that jumped at the corner of her eye.
"Naomi," Castiel said, voice weary. He had no time for her at the moment. "I have no time for you at the moment."
"Oh, yes, I know. You're extremely busy. Sulking, is it?"
"I prefer the term brooding."
"Semantics, Castiel. Let's not split hairs." She cleared her throat and straightened something on her immaculate desk. "That isn't why I brought you here, however. We need to discuss the demon."
He cocked his head and his brow furrowed. "Meg?"
"No, Castiel, Bozo the Clown. Yes, Meg, since that's what she's calling herself these days. I've tried to be generous on this point, but my patience grows thin."
He blinked at her. "I don't understand. Why do you care?"
"It isn't seemly, Castiel. She is a demon," she said with an impatient huff of breath.
"She was there when I needed her," he said. "When I was…unwell. I'm aware of what she is, but she is also, incongruously, my friend."
Naomi stared at him. Rolled her eyes and waved her hand. The dam of memory in his mind broke, and he stood uncomprehending as nearly a year of his life came rushing back all at once.
"You did this? You kept this from me?"
"No, Castiel. You kept it from yourself. I merely…reinforced the barrier."
His face contorted in a furious scowl, but she was unfazed. "I'll raise it again before you leave. As I said, the demon, and your attachment to her, is a problem. If you insist on continuing this unnatural obsession, I will have to take stronger measures against her."
"Speak plainly."
Her eyes, hard and cold as sapphires, met his with a level stare. "We will hunt her down, Castiel, and we will kill her."
His Grace flared like a deadly beacon, and he surged toward her. He slammed his palms down on the desk and it shattered like kindling. She shoved back in her chair, but he had his hands on her before she could react. "Try, Naomi," he said. "Try."
"You are my puppet, Castiel," she said, her voice strained as his hands tightened around her throat. "You dance on my string. I could send you to kill her and you would do it."
He let her go, and she tumbled to the floor in a graceless heap. "No," he said, voice cold and flat and deadly. "Not her. I would die first."
She let out a rusty laugh. "I sincerely hope it doesn't come to that, Castiel. I truly do."
He took a rage-fueled step, but then checked himself. He was trying to atone, and she wasn't worth it. "I'm done here," he said.
He was back in the motel room, and as she'd promised, Naomi had replaced the memory wall in his mind. He didn't know she'd done it, of course, because he had no idea it was there…or even that Naomi existed. He felt a vague sense of wrongness and a lingering fury. Grace still sparked from his fingertips and glowed from his eyes.
Odd, but no stranger than anything else that had happened to him in the last few years.
He rose from the bed. Straightened his coat. When he opened the motel room door, he stopped short. A small black cat sat on the faded welcome mat. She'd been washing her paw, but when she saw him she stopped. Arranged herself like a perfect little goddess and stared up at him with wide amber eyes.
"Mrow," she said, or a close approximation of it.
"Hello," he said. "Do I know you?"
She gave a slow blink and a twitch of her tail like that was possibly the most absurd thing she'd ever heard.
I should've found a really big dog and named it Iago.
"Desdemona?"
She let out a purr of approval and twined herself through his legs. He picked her up and she snuggled into his arms with a contented mew and several head-butts.
"Meg will not be as happy to see you as I am, I'm afraid."
She opened one amber eye and fixed him with a stern cat glare.
"You're right. She will be far less displeased than she pretends. She always is." He considered for a moment. "It is, I think, part of her charm."
The matter settled to her satisfaction, the cat curled up into his coat. He ran a finger along the line of her skull, between her ears and down her nose, and then they both disappeared with a whisper of wings.
Naomi got Cas pretty riled up. He's so adorable when he gets all protective.
Every time you review, Naomi gets a smack in the face, and Cas eats watermelon on a hot day. Shirtless.
Just think about it.
