Author's Note: Point of note? Reviews make the author muy happy and, incidentally, makes her post things faster. ;)

Additionally, I will mostly keep each chapter within a set timeframe, save a few flashbacks, but be certain to pay particular attention to the "historian's note" that goes along with each new chapter, as it'll help you out in putting the pieces of the puzzle together. Example: "18 Months After the Fall."

THE END

the whole world's sitting on a ticking bomb
the sea will boil and the sky will fall
the sun may never rise again

18 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

Time hadn't felt short at all.

"Hey, Garth."

The other sentry acknowledged his fellow crew member. "Kevin. Thought they relieved you?"

Around them, perimeter checks and safety sweeps circulated. There was a fire somewhere needing to be put out, fences to rebuild. It was just after midnight, the dark sky rendered opaque with mist and humidity. The moon struggled to appear through the cloudbanks, while the occasional searchlight forced the abandoned district beyond the fence into muggy, dispassionate illumination.

Kevin's eyes were darker, wilder than they'd been when Dean and Sam had found him years ago. He had shadows gathered under them, a testament to the sleepless nights and twisted dreams. His face was older, his shoulders wider. The dark hair that hung in his eyes was nearly back to its original length, and his jaw was covered in scruff that was too long to be called stubble anymore. Kevin shrugged. "Nah, Charlie was sick. I took her shift."

"Nice of you."

Kevin again shrugged, hefting his weapon tighter against his chest. "You gonna be around tomorrow night?"

The lanky hunter looked out past the chain-linked sanctuary of Camp Chitaqua, shaking his head, then slid his gaze up towards the waxing gibbous moon, nearly full. The shadows of his angular face became heavy, his mouth thinning into a tight line.

"Negative, amigo."

Tomorrow night he'd already be far from the camp, accustomed to the cold kiss of manacles and damp musty cellars. The moon seemed to smile back at him, fond in an almost cruel way of its lupin servant.

Kevin took understanding from the hooded look, shifting uncomfortably.

"Did they find any today?" Garth prompted instead, looking haunted, eager to change the subject.

"Don't think so. Sounded like another dead end. Just more bandits and Croats." Kevin shook his head. They'd lost three men, he'd heard. "Shit."

Garth regarded him with narrowed eyes and an admonishing tone. "You shouldn't swear."

Kevin sighed, kicking idly at the chain-link fence. "Whatever."

"Any luck on finding your mom?" Garth tried instead.

Kevin said nothing, a muscle flexing in his jaw. He shivered, but Garth didn't think it had anything to do with the evening chill.

Dutifully, he turned back to his post. "Sorry I asked."

Beyond the borders, there was a distant scream, swallowed by the night.

the silent war has begun
we're staring down a loaded gun
no refuge found on solid ground
this human race can't be won

EARLIER THAT DAY

There were no seasons anymore. Just the constant oppressive temperature of a Hell gone topside, leaving most of the earth arid and wild.

City blocks now looked like rows of open penitentiaries, or—worse—had fallen into complete ruin. The midday sun sat high in the sky, beating down with a sweltering heat. No clouds today, just a vast wasteland of empty sky, stretching on for miles. The streets set out before them were barren, tufts of grass and weeds sprouting from crevices in the pavement. Biohazard sheets still hung from some of the buildings in a dilapidated spectacle, vines and foliage twisting up the edifices of apartment complexes and fortification walls. The hospitals were demolished entirely.

The maze of downtown lay ahead, welcoming them in crude, treacherous invitation. Overhanging tarps fluttered idly in the wind as they were suspended from rows of scaffolding; a convenient lookout.

"This is Rifle One, go for ground."

Dean had more frown lines, more darkness in him.

"Place looks deserted," replied the mechanical voice from the walkie he held in his hands. Far ahead, he could see Yeager and Irv with the rest of the reconnaissance crew.

"This whole town is a fucking killbox," grated Dean. He regarded what lay ahead with heavy suspicion, distrust and vigilance swimming in his eyes like tar. He knew what waited beyond the borderlands.

This was looter territory.

They were sitting dead center on a notorious raider highway in the middle of an open quarantine zone, wading through shit creek and without the shoes for it. Things would go real south real fast if they weren't careful. Of all the damn places for a group of Fallen to be holed up…

To hell with the halo squad.

On top of that lost and utter waste of a cause, Sam wanted to search for survivors and the crew needed supplies. Dean was just looking to stick his knife into something.

"Where the hell are they?" he growled under his breath, impatience shortening his tone. They'd been chasing rumors of a First Blade for over a month besides, with nothing to show for it. It left the camp leader more pissy and volatile than usual, and everyone was giving him a wide berth.

Beside him, Sam muttered, "Relax, Dean. They were a state over when they radioed."

Taking in the sight ahead, Sam scratched absently at the patch of cloth over his right eye, a token from one of Abaddon's lieutenants. Unfortunately, the injury occurred after that piece of shit Gadreel had been expelled. And it wasn't like they had another angel on deck willing or able to zap Sam a new eye. The few they had at the camp were so damaged from the Fall that they could barely keep themselves together.

So many thought it would slow him down, the loss. That it would set him a step back.

It didn't. He was a Winchester. Which meant he killed the demon, tore away the sleeve of his shirt to wrap around his face to stop the bleeding, and finished the job before heading back to camp.

Dean still had both his eyes, but all he could see with them was revenge. Abaddon's charred remains crunching beneath his boots. Every demon, every monster, dead. All he saw was the red red red of blood, and no consequence or care as to how it was spilled. The instant Croatoan hit, the world was just another lost cause anyways—what was there left to fight for if not a reckoning?

Sam disagreed. Somewhere down the line, their roles had been reversed. He was ready to keep fighting.

The walkie he held crackled to life. "Right behind you, Bullwinkle."

Sam spoke into Dean's walkie then, to their men below. "This is Rifle Two. Fire and Ice are inbound. We're going in." He glanced to his right. "Risa, keep a lookout from here."

Risa nodded, settling herself on her stomach, tucking the Barrett M82 tight into her shoulder. "Got you covered."

Exchanging silent looks, the brothers dropped from the scaffolding. As one, they forged ahead.

They reached the rest of the crew just after passing the remains of a grounded helicopter, aged with oxidation and flaking paint. Here, they entered the labyrinth of abandoned vehicles strewn chaotically, telling the story of a mad dash for escape. Shattered bricks and split concrete made up most of the pathway they took, just off street. The street itself was too open—not enough cover. Slanted signs loomed above them, crumbling edifices to their right. Stoplights hung uselessly from their posts.

Now Playing: Route 666, announced the broken down theater.

Weapons slung over their shoulders, a chill at their backs, the men turned away from the sight.

"Hold up," Dean said suddenly, raising a hand.

Obediently, the men stilled. Everyone fell on high alert, eyeing their leader hawkishly, awaiting orders. Dean scowled ahead, listening, feeling out the tight buzz that had settled just seconds ago in his gut. He scanned their surroundings slowly, methodically, grip tightening over his assault weapon. Beside him, Sam had adopted the same stance. His brother's sense of hearing was better now even than his, a compensation for the visual impairment.

"We've got trouble," the younger Winchester forewarned, his tone low and grave.

"Shit," Dean muttered, seeing the body of a man slip behind cover on a faraway outcrop. "Weapons up!"

A second later, a shot broke the quiet in half and Irv dropped dead to the ground.

After that, the deserted town became a warzone. Gunfire shattered the afternoon as more ambushers appeared from their stations. Dean and Sam both began shouting orders as the crew took cover and began delivering return fire.

The enemy sniper took aim on another, finger just barely squeezing over the trigger when he took a devastating shot to the temple, immediately dead. Back at the scaffolding, Risa slammed the bolt on her rifle back and forward, reloading another bullet into the chamber for the next raider unfortunate enough to fall into her sights.

Dean broke out the window of the Corolla they were wedged behind, utilizing the additional cover of the metal frame as he shoved the barrel of his M4A1 through and bared down on the trigger. Sam and Yeager were on either side of him, while the rest of their dozen or so man team was spread out behind whatever cover they could find.

Yeager was out of ammo in his own M4 within moments, a fool's move because the poor bastard couldn't hit the broad side of a barn if he was standing inside it, so he had nothing to show for the spent ammo besides. Dean swore impressively, throwing his extra sidearm at the man. He knew Yeager was a crack shot with a pistol, at least.

Sure enough, raiders began dropping under the shots from the old Browning in seconds.

Sam had already silenced three men with his M16 and another with his sidearm when the man tried to skirt around the pile of vehicles to flank them. Momentum sent the dead ambusher skidding through the dirt towards them. Sam kicked the body away and unloaded more cover fire for Mathew, who was making his way around the maze.

Though he still had plenty of ammunition left over in his AR, Dean quickly slung it back over his shoulder for safe keeping. There were worse things than bandits outside the camp's walls, after all. He pulled his pearl-handled Taurus from a holster at his thigh and started putting it to use.

Sam let out a string of curses when his weapon suddenly jammed. They needed more reliable gear, for fuck's sake. Scavenging was proving to be more hazardous than it was worth.

"Sammy, get that shooter to do its damn job!"

"I'm trying, Dean!" Sam shouted back. He fought in vain with the failing weapon, angry frustration welling like boiling water. "Goddamnit." He barely had time to register the unfriendly sight of an ambusher pounding towards him, weapon drawn, before the man was lurching back with an arrow lodged in his heart.

'Bout time, thought Sam blackly with satisfaction, equally irritated and grateful.

Two more ambushers died screaming as arrows found their mark. High at their backs, Castiel vaulted the roof's ledge he was standing on and dropped down to the fire escape below. He held a tactical recurve bow in his hand and wore his usual stern frown, taking the metal stairs two at a time. Bullets quickly started notching into the brick and metal around him as he drew the attention of the ambushers. The grating jarred loudly under the stress as he made a running leap across, landing on a lower escape. In no time he reached the final level, dropping down and gripping the rungs of the escape tight, the ladder going into a fast slide under his weight. Castiel dropped, boots hitting the ground, already on the move.

Using the distraction, Dean took off from around the car, tearing across the broken street and swallowing ground faster than the ambusher ahead of him could react. Dean had the demon knife slamming up into the the man's chest within seconds, then punched and grappled his way through a small group trying to reload. Luck was provisionally on their side due to the fact that only a third of the ambush party appeared to have functioning weapons.

Sam took out two men with double taps to the chest, his M16 forgotten in the dirt and replaced with the Smith & Wesson in his hands. Shooting anything that didn't spray the enemy with a hail of bullets was easier said than done these days, and he'd had to relearn everything he once did as easily as drawing breath. Another man behind him flew back under the skill of Risa's sharpshooting, clearing the immediate area for him.

Castiel fired three more arrows home, keen eyes leading the third as he ran. The ambusher was choking on his own blood in moments mid-run, an arrow in his throat as he tripped and collided hard with the ground. Behind the fallen angel, another looter tore around the corner but barely had time to draw a bead before he too was left choking.

"Don't think so, kitten," Meg's smoky voice purred in his ear before she drew her knife back out of his neck. His body didn't even have time to hit the ground before she was tearing after Castiel, hot on his heels.

For no longer being invincible, Castiel quickly became known for his penchant towards recklessness. He threw himself headlong into forays, charging enemies and barreling straight into the nebulous of battle.

Admittedly, Meg stressed. He was human now, and humans didn't last long in their world. Especially Castiel—he died more times than she cared to keep track of. She often referred to him as the Kenny of angels, which he'd never found to be funny. Neither did she, not really, but her sense of humor was always a little twisted.

But no. Castiel was a warrior before anything else. Before grace, before servitude, before guardian. And damn was he a thing to look at when he got violent.

Mid-run, someone caught him around the back of his jacket, trying to haul him back into a fight. Castiel spun and lashed out, first knocking away the offending hand and then sending a brutal blow to the man's nose. To finish it, he swung his bow around by the grip in a devastating arc, nearly beheading the ambusher. Castiel pivoted sharply, drawing another arrow from the quiver at his back and firing it through the eye socket of the man rushing him with a scatter gun.

He crossed over the body and bounded nimbly up a taxi trunk and straight onto the roof, careless of being exposed, taking aim with his bow over the maze of autos. He had modified the weapon himself—both upper and lower limbs had titanium blades bonded to them, and the bloodied metal gleamed under the hot sun. Meg was beside him in an instant, her back colliding with his as she started unloading cover fire with her Beretta.

"You and your big entrances," she muttered.

Castiel spared her a brief glance. "I had stealth in mind, not flair."

Meg's smile was lazy and knowing. "Uh huh."

As the demon and the fallen angel drew most of the fire, the rest of the crew was able to secure an angle on their ambushers. The forty-man gang of looters began to dwindle as skill rapidly overtook numbers. Not one of them was as strong as all of them. Together, they were nothing short of unstoppable.

Dean ducked beneath an arcing blade, backtracking around the man wielding it to snap his neck. He punched another once, twice, in the throat and finished him with a shot between the eyes. Sam appeared at his side, his massive height a shield and constant companion as together they crushed whatever opposed them.

"Trying to flank," was all Castiel said before he stepped off the roof of the taxi onto the windshield, the glass spiderwebbing loudly under his boot as he leapt off in pursuit.

"I've got you," came Meg's unnecessary reply. He knew she did.

Around them, gunfire assaulted their ears and bullets screamed past. Castiel saw the maneuver the ambushers were pulling, intending to put an end to it. Meg tore after him, sprinting around two jeeps and a city bus, stabbing and shooting. She was lissome as a wraith—as graceful a beast as he'd ever seen. He admired her in battle possibly even more than when she was lying beside him, tangled in sheets.

Jumping over a fallen lamppost, Meg utilized her footing to spring herself onto the box of a semi. She gripped the roof rail with one hand, drawing herself up with facile skill and strength.

"Three on your left!" she shouted after him.

Under fire, Castiel skidded hard through gravel and slid behind a nearby car, bullets ricocheting around him as he shielded his face.

One charged forward, bowie drawn. Castiel heard the pounding footsteps and reacted. His hands closed over the wrist that tried to drive the knife into his heart, stopping the point of the blade a foot or so away from his chest. He twisted hard, hearing bone snap, then kicked out. The heel of his boot connected with a knee and when the subsequent scream predictably followed, Castiel tossed the man aside into the spray of bullets. One of the men still firing at him went down with a shot to the chest from somewhere, and the second suddenly had an eyeline full of angry demon.

Meg unleashed a quick series of harsh jabs, a gunshot going wild when she knocked the man's sidearm away. He used his height and bulk to his advantage, bearing down on her with brute strength. His meaty fist struck hard against her face, stealing her blood and marking her. Meg spun and weaved, cutting with her knife, and then the man doubled over, seemingly without cause, grunting in pain. Meg had her fingers curled into a partways fist, digging mental claws into the human male. She wore a snarl and her eyes were an oily black. "You shouldn't hit girls."

Meg was strong. Stronger than ten men. She liked to show it off whenever she could.

She gave another twist of power and kicked the man aside. Castiel saw the exchange and shot to his feet, sending an arrow flying past her into the shoulder of the ambusher coming up behind her. Meg finished him with a backwards arc of the wrist, burying her knife in his chest. Castiel was back at her side in moments, shouldering and fighting his way through bodies. Twice he swung his bow, slicing deadly arcs and cutting through flesh and bone. Meg's black stare snapped back to the man she'd left coughing up blood on ground, seeing the .38 in his hands. Acting on instinct, she lashed out, fingers closing around Castiel's jacket and yanking him back, out of the way, so that the two bullets pak-pak'd! into her chest. She growled under her breath—she liked that shirt—and emptied the remainder of her clip into the shooter.

"Out of ammo, Grumpy," said Meg, heedless of the din surrounding them. "Mind if I borrow this?"

Tossing a charming smile his way and without waiting for an answer, Meg's fingers closed around the handle of his angel blade, holstered at his thigh, and pulled it free.

"Help yourself."

Armed with her own knife and his blade, Meg began cutting herself a bloody path.

Sam threw a man from his back as though he were a toy, whirling and punching out another that tried to advance on him. The man in the dirt he shot once, but the other he never got the chance to. A large length of wood sailed through the air, wielded like a bat, smashing against Sam's shoulder and sending the spray of kindling everywhere. Sam grunted and stumbled, but remained otherwise undeterred, much to the dismay of the man holding what was left of the wood. Sam grabbed him around the throat, pushing him back into an old sedan so hard the window cracked. The younger Winchester drew back and punched the looter's face back into the glass so that it shattered completely.

Dean had already finished his kills, standing over the bodies with a scowl and surveying what threats remained. Yeager and his team had another straggler or two to handle, and Risa silenced yet another who was attempting to make a getaway.

"Meg!"

The demon craned her neck, dark curls whipping across her face. Castiel was becoming surrounded. Meg finished the raider she was scuffling with, then tossed the angel blade back towards its owner. Castiel caught it and whirled, stabbing one attacker between the ribs, then pivoted back, flipped the blade in his hand and threw it. The holy steel embedded in the last ambusher's sternum.

God, he was fast. Even for having no power.

Meg barely even had time to express her approval before she was registering pain and a powerful force knocked her into the dirt, hard.

She cried out at the feel of her side being rent open, at the burn of the salt, rolling over to see a man with a shorty aimed at her. A shadow swept over her then, and she recognized Castiel's towering form as he inserted himself between the barrel of the gun and her. His hand automatically went to the quiver at his back, realizing belatedly then that there was nothing there when his fingers met only with empty air.

A gritty smile spread on the face of the man holding the gun, his posture relaxing. "Looks like you're out of arrows, Hawkeye."

Castiel pulled the pistol from his shoulder holster and shot the man, watching impassively as the body slunk to the ground.

Sometimes he wondered at the stupidity of people.

He scanned the area carefully as he turned, offering a hand to Meg. The question hung in his eyes as to whether or not she was alright. Meg grunted as she reached up, hissing through her teeth when he hauled her gently to her feet. "I'm fine," she muttered, glaring at the double barreled shotgun with disdain. "What the hell."

"Salt rounds?" Castiel ventured, pressing his gloved hand against the wound in concern.

Meg shook her head. "One of each. Different shell in each barrel. Bastards were prepared."

Castiel wore a pensive frown, looking briefly at the weapon as though he wished he could do it harm. Relenting that, he scanned the area somewhat anxiously. "We should work quickly."

"Your wish, featherpants," Meg replied at length, checking over the bodies for anything they could use.

Dean cast a bleak look back at the bodies of their men. Yeager and Arthur were bowed over them, considering what to do. "Fuckin' great."

Irv and Mathew, both dead.

"Shit," said Sam around a sigh, running a hand over his face.

"Well, Sam? Any survivors? Anybody to save? Maybe we'll find a puppy on the way back to camp so you can fill your good deed quota."

Sam bristled at his brother's tone. "Dean."

"This was a waste of fucking time."

"Don't be a dick," Sam muttered reproachfully. He knew his brother was not mad at him, knew the object of his anger. It would lead them nowhere good.

"They're gonna get us all killed," Dean shot heatedly back. "How many men have we lost over this angel shit?"

"It matters, Dean."

"Only thing that matters is putting that demon bitch in the ground."

I'm just a freedom fighter, no remorse
raging on in holy war
soon there will come a day
when you're face to face with me

Castiel had begun the menial task of recollecting his arrows when Dean appeared at his side, looking impatient and pissed.

"Well?" he prompted. "Where're your frat brothers?"

Castiel was no stranger to Dean's attitude towards his mission, and already he was weary with where this was going. "I'm not omniscient. I just know they were in this town."

Dean rolled his eyes as Castiel began searching the area. His friend still heard angel radio, an ability they often used to track down and locate members of the Fallen tribe. Many of them they offered sanctuary, a place in the world, while the more violent ones were dealt with in other ways. "I just lost two men for this shit, man. Either they're here, or they're not."

Castiel's eyes met his sharply, glacier cold. "I'll find them, Dean."

Dean bristled at the abrasive tone, but eventually chose to ignore it. Smirking, he advised, "Well, take teacup demon with you. I think she has cockroach DNA. She seems to survive everything. Maybe you could use her as a shield."

Meg cheerfully flipped him off.

Sam sighed with the grace of an exasperated mother. "Be careful," he offered to both Meg and Castiel. They'd already lost enough today.

Meg grabbed the front of Castiel's shirt and towed him after her. "Move it, Clarence. Sooner we get out of this damn sun, the better."

The sight was still an oddity—the tiny demon and the lumbering fallen angel, walking side by side. Sam glanced at his brother, at the surly, standoffish squaredness of his shoulders. He knew Dean hated Meg; everyone knew how Dean Winchester felt about the demon in the camp. Many shared his viewpoint, though rarely said so. Even powerless, a lot of the men were still afraid of Castiel.

Once upon a time, Sam had hated Meg too. She'd been responsible for so much upheaval, so much loss, in their lives. But then he'd been there in Meg's final moments. Heard the things that she told him. Knew how much she was sacrificing, and that she was willing to die for one of them.

Sam was there when Meg gave her life for Castiel.

He saw, and understood.

Sam would never forget the things she'd said to him, how she confided in him. Did that make him an idiot? Maybe. Dean would never get it like he did. Dean would go on hating Meg for the things she did in her past, Meg would go on hating Dean just for the hell of it, and Sam and Castiel would be caught somewhere in the middle.

Just like always, thought Sam grimly as he followed after his brother.

I am still here waiting
I'm anticipating
while they are orchestrating
to grant the wish that I am making

The bow became almost as beloved as she was. It became an extension of him.

He had struggled with the weight at first.

"Turn down the poundage," she'd suggested.

"I shouldn't have to."

"Well, tough shit, handsome. You get to earn your strength like everyone else now."

"My strength was earned over millennia. I have existed since before this earth was formed from the abyss—before you were even a thought. It's easy for you to say this when you still have your power."

"You still talking?"

Sometimes he really hated her. But then she'd smile at him like that, and he'd be undone again.

"Angel with a bow is a little on the nose, don't you think?" she would tease him.

He lifted an eyebrow at her, clearly not understanding.

"Cupid?" Meg pointed out, as though his cluelessness was devastating to her. She sighed at his lack of reaction.

Castiel pushed himself, pushed his limits, in learning the weapon.

"Why is this so important to you?" she would ask him over time, more seriously. She did want to know.

"I'm human, Meg. No longer an angel." He could practically see the sarcasm in her thoughts. No, really? "I don't have my powers to protect me." To protect you, he added silently. "I need to expand my skill set."

"Is that all it is?"

"What else would it be?"

The bow was patience, it was dedication. It demanded focus, and a sort of peace that was often lost to him these days. It was quick and silent and deadly. It was precise, graceful, unpredictable and yet limitless in so many ways. Like he had been. Certain steps had to be followed and mastered. Stance was the foundation, where strength was drawn from. Mindset was paramount-one had to focus solely on the goal, regardless of surroundings. It was deep inhales and nonstop preparations. Anchor and hold. Aim. All that existed was the wielder and their target. Release and follow through. Again and again, responsibility taken for every outcome, for every shot. The bow belonged to him, and he to it. It gave him a glimpse into something he would never have back, that was stolen from him, and yet it gave him a distraction, an attainable focal point for his errant thoughts. It was exactly the weapon he needed. The companion, when he and Meg were at odds, when he needed help that even she couldn't provide.

It gave him power, where his own was now a memory.

The targets for him changed frequently in his mind.

Crowley.

Gadreel.

Metatron.

Abaddon.

Himself.

no price too great, no distance too far
if I can wish upon a black star
it makes no difference where they are

the future is a dying art
laying in a ditch in the dark
I need you here but all I hear
is the beating of a broken heart
don't wait to say goodbye
you're running out of time

"You're never going to tell them, are you?" Meg asked, once they were alone.

Castiel sent her a hooded look. It was one of quiet warning, appealing to her to drop the subject.

"How you brought me back."

"As far as they're concerned, you never died. It should be left at that."

Her lips pulled apart in an almost bitter smile as they walked. "Look who's falling for his own lie." She might've been proud of his deception if the reason for it wasn't so afflictive.

"That's enough, Meg."

Always so afraid your pets might hear of your sins. "I suppose they'll figure it out eventually. In a decade or so."

It was Castiel's turn to sigh. He knew she was still pissed at him, but what's done was done, so… to hell with it. Live and let live while they still could. He felt dark eyes on him, felt the heat of her stare burning through his flesh. "We're not going to survive that long, anyway."

Meg's bark of laughter was harsh. "Yeah, and what if we do? What if I do? You think I wanna live alone in this cesspool?"

One corner of Castiel's mouth quirked up. "I thought you liked being alone?"

Meg smiled back, enjoying his volleys. "Maybe you're just too entertaining to lose so soon. I need at least a few more decades to really sink my claws into you."

Affection skirted the edges of his mouth, his gaze slanting to regard her in passing. "That was almost a compliment."

Meg suddenly lost all trace of humor, stopped walking. "I'm serious, you know."

Castiel stopped too, staring down at her. "So am I. You think I wanted to be alone?"

Meg looked away, rolling her eyes. "You have people." He crowded her space, inspecting the wound at her side again carefully, and she went on. "You have family, brothers. Land of misfit toys and all that Team Free Will shit."

"They're not you." His voice was low and intimate beside her, his hands gentle, and she tried to ignore it.

"Don't try to be romantic, you suck at it. You could've had anyone. People might be dropping like flies, but there are still plenty of womenfolk who'd be happy to fawn over a fallen angel."

"I didn't want anyone. Call me sentimental."

Meg snorted, swatting his hands away, and took off walking again. "Oh, I will. Incessantly."

Castiel's smile was halfhearted, tired. "I know you will."

"Hear anything rattling around in that noggin of yours?"

Castiel shook his head, eyes narrowing against the sun. "Just an aching head. I… don't hear them anymore."

"So much for good news."

"Yes. I'm sure our fearless leader will be thrilled."

Meg leveled a crooked smile his way as they stepped into a nearby apartment building that was abandoned. "Grumpy little shit. Love it."

As they scavenged, Castiel presented her with two weapons, a short barrel shotgun in one hand and a hunting rifle in the other. The silent question went unspoken.

"Baby, you know I like something with kick."

Castiel tossed her the shotgun without a word, smirking a little, and slung the rifle over his own shoulder. Meg hummed to herself as they began clearing the first floor of the complex and it did well to set him at ease, in an absurd sort of way that he couldn't quite explain. After a few minutes, catching a lyric here and there, he became even more curious.

Fell in a cement mixer? Drowned in a hot tub? Crappy purple Scion? Danced to death at an east side night club?

Castiel's brow quirked, a bemused expression crossing his pinched features at the words spilling from her lips in disjointed harmony.

Meg noticed his expression after awhile and was amused. "It's a song, Clarence. Expand your horizons."

Castiel shook his head, ducking under a broken beam. "I'm an angel fallen to earth having sexual relations with a demon. My horizons are vast."

A broad, dimpled grin spread wide over Meg's apple face. "Was that a joke?"

"I can be funny."

Meg had half a mind to jump him right there, but Castiel had gone still. He stared, almost sightlessly, out the open doorway into the back courtyard of the complex. Meg regarded him uneasily, given his sudden demeanor. Hesitantly, she drew up beside him, following his stare.

There, spread out over the dying lawn, were the bodies of at least a dozen angels. It was clear they had died mid-battle, having killed each other.

"Damn it," muttered Castiel, averting his eyes sullenly.

Meg sighed heavily beside him, glancing his way. "Sorry."

"This was a waste of time."

Irv and Mathew had died for nothing. For nothing.

Meg observed the harsh cut of his scruffy jaw, the tense lines of his body and face. The blue of his eyes was dull and angry and she knew how badly this affected him—more so even than what he allowed her to see. Castiel hid so much from everyone nowadays. Before, the angel had practically been an open book. He often spoke what was on his mind, what he was thinking through every experience. He was childlike almost, in that gruff way only he could manage. Now, though, he was much more withdrawn. He rarely spoke of how he was handling things—which worried her. He was a prime example of the old fish out of water adage even when he'd had his powers, but now he'd had humanity forced on him and he wasn't saying anything.

Meg wasn't big on sharing circles, and she really didn't give a shit about the angels, but she knew that he did. She wished he would say something—wished she could say something, anything, to lessen the grief that was eating through him. It was a sentiment she wasn't well acquainted with—this inherent need to put an end to his suffering. At least not one she'd felt for a very long time.

You can't save everyone, Castiel. Meg regarded him dismally, knowing that even if she spoke the words aloud, he wouldn't listen. And you can't save someone who doesn't want to be rescued.

Castiel turned away from the sight, back into the complex, and began his angry march back to the crew. There was a sudden clatter above them, and then a sensation not unlike stepping into a brick wall as Meg stopped him with a hand on his chest.

His gaze darted to her face. "Meg?"

Eyes black as pitch. "They're coming."

"What's coming?"

"The hell you think?" Meg's tone was dark, battle ready.

Castiel stared at her, grim realization dawning in his eyes. "Croats," he said.

In the distance there was a shout, chased immediately by the sound of gunfire.

"Shit," she murmured, looking around.

Beside them there was a crash, and then Castiel was being tackled into the wall. Picture frames coated in dust were knocked from their places and sent crashing to the floor as he grappled with the rabid Croat that fought to sink its teeth into his flesh.

Meg brought her knife glistening to the light, a second away from intercepting the parasite when she suddenly had her own armful of snarling infected to deal with. "Cas!"

He punched his way partly free, struggling to get a weapon out. The rifle he'd picked up clattered to the ground at their feet and was kicked aside. Any leeway he made was quickly stolen, and the sound of more pounding footsteps above them was an ominous foreboding.

Meg stabbed and cast out her power, cutting her way free just in time to see Castiel tackle his new friend through the large picture window into the courtyard.

Well, then.

Meg brought her recently acquired short barrel to arms, no longer wary of catching her companion with friendly fire. As Croats began filing down the staircase, Meg began unloading shells into them with some measure of glee. Other demons were tolerable, given her mood was decent. But she hated Croats.

Castiel felt the bone-jarring impact as the ground rushed up on him. Glass rained over his body and jacket, and he scrambled over the broken shards to put some distance between himself and the snarling mass. He barely had enough time to get to his feet before it was on him. He fought it back with a series of blows, reaching over his shoulder and bringing the bow around. He was able to deliver a partial blunt attack with it, but none with the blade itself before the Croat knocked it aside and out of his hands. Castiel felt that ember of fury he'd been harboring flourish into a consuming flame. He was tired, grieving, and wanted to be as far away from this place as he could get. He surrendered to the rage, allowing himself the outlet.

With a growl he balled his fists and started swinging. His sidearm would stay forgotten in favor of a method more personal, bloodier. He wanted to feel this creature's death. He knocked the Croat back with several hard blows, and then he reached behind his back, gripped the handle of the machete sheathed there, and drew it out in a smooth arc and sliced it through the air.

The Croat's head fell at his feet.

Castiel kicked it aside and began bullying his way through the small handful more that now blocked his way back into the complex. He cut and chopped himself a gory path, taking a moment to relish the satisfaction it brought him. Bloodshot eyes, awash in madness, glared into him during the frenzy. Castiel stared back, unflinching and unafraid. Daring them to finish him, daring them to try.

With nothing left to stand in his way, he burst back through the door, barely even flinching from the spray of blood that splattered the wall next to his head at the threshold. Meg was there, smoke pouring out the barrels of her shotgun. Together, they finished the last two.

Castiel pressed his boot against the chest of the Croat stuck on the edge of his machete and pushed, removing it with a squelch. He'd noticed over time that humanity seemed to render him less civilized, more barbaric.

"Move," Castiel said. Meg followed, without question, right at his side.

As they raced back to the rest of the group, relief knifed through him at the sight of dead Croats and all of their people still alive. Despite this, there was a severe and dismal atmosphere amongst the men, and Castiel needn't wait long to know why.

All eyes were on Yeager. He held his arm tucked close to his chest, blood oozing between his fingers and down his wrist. As he pulled his hand away, the bite mark became more clear.

No. No, no…

The heavy silence was broken only by the cocking of a hammer. Bravely, Yeager straightened his spine and lifted his chin, nodding once at his commander.

Dean pulled the trigger and Yeager fell dead to the ground.

Castiel closed his eyes, turning away and sighing deeply. Dean rounded on him, expression a thundercloud. Meg drifted closer to the fallen angel, making her stance known and abundantly clear, should the situation escalate more than it already had.

Dean merely spread his hands, shrugging. "Happy, Cas?"

Though the words held a false note of affability, they were delivered as a growl, a slap to the face.

Castiel said nothing.

Dean shouldered past him. The other men began to follow, a small handful moving to collect the body for a proper burial. Sam clapped a tired hand on Castiel's shoulder briefly as he passed.

"Just give him some space for awhile."

Castiel stood quietly for a long time, staring at the dead body of their friend. He hadn't gotten along with Yeager as well as some of the others, but this was no way for the man to die. Despite any disagreements they may have had, Yeager was a good man.

Castiel mused, not for the first time, that he was not.

"Hey." Meg's shoulder brushed against his. "What do you say we get the hell out of here?"

"Yes."

can't you hear us coming, people marching all around
can't you see we're coming, close your eyes it's over now
can't you hear us coming, the fight has only just begun

Gradually, they made their way back to their own vehicle, alone. Under the heat of the sun, it was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything but the pounding in his head. Hearing angel radio while in human form was a hazard in and of itself, and it usually left him suffering blinding headaches and a less than sunny disposition. It also didn't help that he had several thousand years worth of memories trying to fit inside a limited mortal brain, which was ironic since he was still missing so many vital ones.

Castiel ducked his head, slipping a pair of sunglasses over his eyes to stem the pain.

"You okay?"

"You ask me that too often. I'm going to start thinking you care."

Meg gave a delicate scoff, a fine dark eyebrow arching for her hairline. "Didn't mean to give the wrong idea."

"Wouldn't want that."

Suddenly he was pressing her up against the side of their jeep, his chest brushing hers as he closed the distance between them. One of his hands fell to the side of her neck, the other curled around her waist, and he was kissing her. Yes. Her veins sang, his touch sending that familiar thrill shooting throughout her entire body. Meg tilted her chin up, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. Her other arm reached up and circled around his neck to pull him closer, fingers delving into the dark hair at his nape. He made a soft sound, leaning into her, mapping the familiar curve of her lips and body. She had a way of making him forget everything.

It didn't last long, just long enough to leave them each wanting more. Castiel drew back, but remained close enough to see into her eyes, his hand tangling in the dark waves of hair that spilled over her shoulder. "I hate this," he muttered.

"I know you do," she said, knowing what he meant. Her fingers played with ends of his shirt, their noses brushing.

Castiel shook his head. "All of this, it's—"

"If the next words that come out of your mouth are 'my fault,' I'm going to skin you."

He sighed, turning his face away from her. It was actually the worst thing he could have done because, in doing so, Meg noticed the spots of blood peeking out from the collar of his shirt along the column of his neck and she reached up to yank it back before he could stop her. "Meg—"

"Did you get bit again?" she demanded.

"It's nothing."

Meg glared up at him, her expression fiery. "Here's an idea. Fucking evade."

Castiel shrugged her off. "I said I'm fine."

True, he would be. Castiel could not become infected.

The first time he was ever bitten was a harrowing experience. For everyone, really. Barely even registering the blood pooling down into his boot, Castiel had scrambled for his machete in a panic, letting out a string of pretty curses he'd learned from either her or Dean, actually prepared to cut off his own fucking leg on the spot.

Meg wasn't sure what made her stop him.

As she thought about it, without the use of both legs, the poor bastard would've been even worse. Newly human, assimilating with all the grace of a newborn fawn, and only half the motor function? He'd have been better off dead.

Then… Castiel simply didn't turn.

Still, though—at least he'd gone for the machete and not the pistol. With the almost professional way he sulked and pined over the varsity days, she'd have thought he'd leap at the chance to punch his own ticket once and for all.

But no. Castiel wanted to survive.

Then there was that whole Deal business gumming up the works. Meg didn't think he actually cared about that. Well, cared, maybe—but definitely not as much as he should have. Nonetheless, after the Croat left his leg mangled and his foot broken, Castiel was laid up for two months and probably wishing he had just offed himself in a blaze of glory.

Meg remembered breaking Yeager's nose when he'd tried to shoot Cas, and it felt almost ironic to recall it now. She assumed Cas was remembering, too. "Wheelman or wingman?" she asked quietly, allowing the subject to drop.

"You drive."

The moment they each settled into the vehicle, Castiel reached for the glove compartment and the bottle of pills waiting faithfully inside. He tossed four back quickly, swallowing them dry.

"Take it easy, Anna Nicole."

Castiel massaged his forehead briefly, leaning a shoulder against the passenger side door. "Wasn't aware you were still my nurse."

"Oh, isn't that why you brought me back? To take care of you?" Not even the rumble of the engine could drown out her sarcasm.

Castiel avoided her eyes. "That isn't why."

"Hell it isn't. I'm a glorified babysitter. Again." She took the bottle from him and tossed it into the backseat.

Castiel felt chagrin. They rode in silence for awhile, the barren stretch ahead of them uninspiring. "Now what?" he asked, after a moment.

Meg shrugged. "Kevin wants us to restock his TP reserves." She looked about as excited for that as one would expect.

Castiel's expression was sour. "I'd rather search for more things to kill."

Meg's smoky laughter filled the cab. She patted his knee. "I like the way you think, hotwings." She paused then, thinking almost out loud. "You ever wonder if we'll get sick of the bloody violence we surround ourselves with?"

"Unlikely."

Her answering smile was sharp and glittering in the dashboard light. That's my boy, she thought.

Tortured, angst-ridden, broody grump of a pushover. She wouldn't have him any other way.

Leaving Salvation, the dilapidated sign behind them read. Castiel regarded it grimly.

the whole world's sitting on a ticking bomb
and it don't care what side you're on
so keep your calm and carry on
cause it's about to explode