Author's Note: So, so sorry this one took fifty years to post. This chapter particularly is going to be split into three parts. Here's the first one. I did this because one: it's obscenely long, and two: I wanted to be able to give you guys SOMETHING.

Sidenote: Fans of "These Wicked Precious Things" will notice deliberate tie-ins throughout.

As usual, translations are located at the bottom of the chapter. Enjoy!

BECOMING, I

forgive me for all the damage done
because who I am isn't who I used to be
I'm not invincible, I'm not indestructible
I'm only the monster you made me

JUNE 2015
23 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

Putrid human filth and its complexities.

The chaos of emotion was so very different than the chaos bred from damnation. An influx of memories poured through his mind, searing hot. Nothing quite clear or identifiable at first, just recollections on what it meant to feel such things once. The blood brought him manufactured emotion, but the deadliest part of it all was that it triggered those memories he was supposed to have forgotten—memories of what it meant to feel pain, sorrow, heartache, joy.

It was easy enough keeping his addiction from his followers. From the still loyal pissants who were tripping over themselves for his approval. It wasn't much more difficult maintaining that air of snide authority when confronted by a Winchester slowly going mad, but to keep his condition from himself was impossible. In his thoughts, on constant loop, spilled the voices of those he had wronged.

The loudest voice being his own.

He'd been human once. All demons had. 1661, Scotland. He was miles from innocent back then, and he'd known what he would become. Still, he'd been vulnerable, plagued by human desires, the need for comfort, the need for being held tight. Pathetic, but who at some point in their life never wanted to be loved?

He didn't know how love felt. It had been too long. Maybe he had never felt it.

As a human, his mother was a witch. A clever woman able to achieve anything she wanted simply by using her charm and a hint of magic. She'd taught him a thing or two about invoking the supernatural, how to pick the right spells and keep the consequences manageable. Magic was an easy way to get what you wanted, but it was never free.

Crowley, the demon, had secrets. Secrets no one knew but himself, secrets that were no one's but his own. At least no one that was still alive. Fergus MacLeod, the living man, had been better than anyone at using secrets to annihilate. Even now, he knew the secrets of everyone—whether they sported a soul, wings, or pointed tail.

But his favorite thing when he'd been human was betrayal. After all… once, he had committed the ultimate betrayal. He remembered even less of such a time. But it was intoxicating to watch, as some powerful patron realized Fergus had deceived him, that the merchant they all found so delightful and trustworthy was nonchalantly informing them of their destruction. A sudden paleness then, as if Fergus had drained the blood from their face with his own hands. And, then… disbelief: because as savvy and cruel as this new breed of leader could be, they still—despite all the misery they had seen and caused—wanted to believe that the world was there to give them what they wanted. They wanted to believe that their power was secure, that their friends were true, and that their lives would end happily. Against all logic, they still believed these things—until Fergus came and announced that he had gutted their treasuries, their alliances, their secrets, and their hopes.

Perhaps he'd been a servant of justice all along. A trickster with motives of seeing the wicked fall far and fall quickly. Truly, these were Crowley's favorite playthings: shame, secrets, fear, and hope. Strings to pull on to make the people dance. It was no wonder he was offered a similar position when he was done being human. After all, it had been his own design that he land here eventually.

He'd thrived among the demons, of course. Short-tempered, brilliant, crafty, and violent, he was considered one of the best despite the belief that he was younger than most of those he commanded. Demons were all too similar to humans, he'd learned. They engaged in infighting and backstabbing, but also evil over good, destruction over preservation. Hell over earth. All the same rubbish with a longer lifespan and a more malevolent means of execution. It was agitating, truly, to know that the vast majority of demons didn't have the faintest idea what being evil was really about. But Crowley knew. He'd seen it, first hand.

But there was little to be done. After all, if there was one thing Crowley liked better than betrayal, it was survival. Helping those humans prevail against the apocalypse had been putting the world and himself before the armies of evil. It had been electrifying. It had reminded him of what he truly was. Who he was meant to be. Even though it cost him his place in the hierarchy at the time, put him on the run from just about everyone, he was immensely proud of it. He'd found some twisted sense of redemption in the fact that, even after centuries and more of service and obedience, the real Crowley was still in there somewhere. The real Crowley that hadn't always been Crowley at all.

Humanity would always determine the end, it seemed. Weak, unassuming little humans with their shame and their fear and their good intentions. All travails Crowley now suffered. He should have known. After everything, he should have known.

His stomach curled and rancor slithered through his veins like a virus, veins still filled with human blood. Not only had the ritual thrust mortal empathy onto him like wretched acid, it reawakened something else in him. Something righteous that had been there once. A secret he would invoke mass slaughter to protect, and had. Before he'd been poisoned by feelings, he hadn't really noticed how human eyes didn't settle on him. If he had, it would've only made him feel potent. Formidable. The dirt roiling blips of light could sense the power that burned off of him and how he smelled of sulfur. But now, he'd been ruined with the toxin of desire and wanted nothing more than to turn what little human eyes remained in this desolate world on his face. He wanted to smash them all against the wall and hurl things at their squalid heads and scream, "Look at me!"

For the nth time, he cursed the putrid filth pounding through his heart. He was the King of Hell, no matter what vitriol that angry ginger was spewing, or how far she climbed up the Mephistophelean ladder. Crowley could feel it within his very bones, burning bright like the fiery depths of his kingdom. Except… his kingdom was broken, wasn't it? He could fool his followers, he could even fool Abaddon if necessary, but he could never fool himself. He was all but hanging on by a thread. Not only to his title, damn it, but his sanity.

Because lately, more and more, he missed it. Truly missed what he'd been before. He missed giving a fuck about people and what they thought and how they lived. He missed feeling. Not only that, he mourned it. Before having lost all reason, he'd been fascinated and endeared by mortals only to later then despise them. Against his better judgment, he allowed himself to reflect on those harrowing revelations.

Can't keep the darkness dark, can you? You just have to shine a light down on all those beasties you don't want to see.

Crowley again felt disgusted with himself. He had all the power Hell could provide, and he liked it. Had the entire underworld at his feet and could do to them and with them whatever he damn well pleased. If he said jump, the demons would build a fucking trampoline to impress him. It should have been enough. There was no reason for it not to be enough. He was a god, in his own right. He made sure everyone knew it, too. That he could and would do unto them what had been done to him. Yes, he liked it. Oh, did he ever.

But he didn't love it. Not really. He'd forgotten the meaning of the word until that stupid angel and that damn demon continually shoved their little affair right in front of his nose, time and again. Infuriating. And Sam… so close to curing him completely, but leaving him mired in between worlds like some mawkish antihero. He was not one thing nor the other.

But perhaps he'd wanted to be saved all along.

He was smarter than the Winchesters. Always had been. Yet they'd trapped him inside two minutes. Ruler of Hades: outdone by two mouthbreathing lumberjacks. It was no stroke of luck, it couldn't be. Years spent evading their grasp and their demon killing knife, only to be captured at the eleventh hour? Nay.

Not long after found Crowley infected with more and more of that purified blood and, slowly, bit by bit, the evil in him had been peeled away. Nearly completely, too, until it all went wrong. Even now, he could sometimes feel that glimpse of humanity dying and so, desperate, he'd send his minions out for more. Everything settled and was calm again when virtue's warm kiss was sliding through his veins again. He was an addict. He was detestable, and not in the way that he liked.

He was still a demon. But he'd also been one bloody high five away from humanity, and it was taking its toll. He'd begun to crave it—the power and purity of what Sam Winchester had never finished. Soon, Crowley found himself stocking up on human blood, found himself needing it as much as he reviled it. The depravity of it all made his stomach churn, even as he registered the unholy sight of the needle piercing his borrowed flesh. Even as he depressed the plunger and liquid empathy invaded his decaying veins and gnarled true form again and again. He loathed what it did to him, yet reveled in the high of it all.

Privately, he wallowed. With guilt, self-pity, fear, hopelessness. It took nothing to ignore it all, not at first.

The moment he'd been dragged out of that church and into the Winchesters' dungeon, the majority of those emotions faded in favor of the anger and frustration he felt. For weeks, he'd held on to those feelings. Day after day, interrogation after interrogation, he taunted them, ridiculed them, annoyed them—made himself as much of a physical thorn in their sides as he possibly could. It had taken nothing to allow those two emotions reign over himself. Because demons were supposed to be angry. It was their genetic make-up—they were conniving and chaos and rotten. The anger felt good, it felt familiar.

But then he'd bargained his own escape, after helping the giant baby expel that holy freeloader. That constant eddy of anger began to dwindle with nothing to fuel its fire. Sure, he was still generally angry, still frustrated that his throne was now all but demolished and Abaddon had nearly usurped him. Of course he was. But other feelings came too.

Crowley remembered being chained down in that church, minutes away from the final injection, and seeing Sam with that sidearm he kept close. It would do nothing to a demon of course, but then… Crowley would soon no longer be a demon at all. Sam had noticed the unspoken question in his eyes, gaunt expression falling grim in the face of it. Without words, it said that the gun and the bullet inside were for him, when he was human. It would be quick, painless, humane.

Crowley had said nothing in reply, but his acknowledgement of the implication was heavy in its silence. A cruel irony it would be when he got sent back to Hell just to become a demon again. If he denied it long enough, maybe he could ignore the guilt and now the fear of what would happen to him that was gripping his heart. Ignore the painful longing for someone to actually give a shit about him. Those emotions were not his own, he told himself. It was the ritual. It was mutilating him, contorting what he was. It was something that was done to him, not something that revealed who he'd been all along.

"How did you think this would go, exactly?" Sam had wondered aloud, as though he really wanted the answer and was unsure of it himself. "You become human and suddenly that makes you a good person?"

"Do you think I was ever a good person?"

Even to his own ears, he could be so damned Socratic sometimes.

Much later, Sam Winchester would be standing before him with big brother in tow, making idle threats and throwing pitiful insults. Crowley knew torture. He knew punishment. He was never intimidated, not once. He thought of his favorite method, his favorite pet: making Meg believe that she had a happy human life with Castiel, before tearing the walls of that manufactured reality down around her.

What did you think was going to happen? Redemption? He'd kiss you and you'd turn into a real girl?

But those things brought Crowley little joy now. The memory instead made his flesh crawl and his gut restless.

He wasn't afraid of Castiel, not completely. Even when the fallen angel was suddenly leveling very real threats into his face in the darkened dungeon, as rent emotionally raw as Crowley felt inside, Crowley held ground. He wasn't even afraid of the demon known as Meg.

But he was terrified of them together.

He'd seen what they could do as one. What chaos they wrought and the kingdoms they'd torn down around them when united. Maybe, Crowley had thought, if he unleashed the two of them on Abaddon somehow… it could work in his favor. He had other motives of course—when did he not?—but that was trivial in comparison. Because even if his steady indulgences of human blood made it almost impossible to be as cavalier with Castiel as he would have liked… humanized, lovesick Cas hadn't needed much of a push. He was easy to rile up, especially where she was concerned. Predictably, he'd all but swan dived into the Pit to raise his little demon Delilah back to life.

Then, one day, Sam motioned for Dean to leave. When the door slammed shut, youngest Winchester turned on him with a look Crowley hadn't seen before. There was something in Sam's eyes he never would've even imagined the boy capable of. That day, Sam surprised him.

"Remember, Crowley. Your throne was meant for me." Even the way he spoke, the inflection of his voice, was alien. "There's a reason you're still afraid of me, whether you want to admit it or not."

Crowley didn't deny it. Instead, he waited. Curious despite himself to see what Sam might say next.

"You know, everyone always says how good Alistair was, and how good his students are… but who do you think trained Alistair?" Crowley's eyes were busy pulling him apart, silent but comprehending exactly what he meant. Sam appeared satisfied with the reaction. "Yeah. So when I say I learned from the best? Well… bored archangels are a lot more creative than demons."

Oh, Crowley knew that to be true. He knew all too well.

It was the following day that Dean came to him, practically begging for his help on ridding young Sammy of an unwanted passenger. It was blind luck, because Crowley knew that if Sam had been allowed a crack at him, he likely would have spilled more than just his guts.

Presently, Crowley sat back in his seat, ceasing his reflections. With the sensation of reviled and despairing warmth settling again over his bones again, he tossed the syringe away with a vicious grunt. It clattered into the nearby bin with the breaking of glass. The contents would be disposed of and burned within the hour. Feeling not unlike a junkie after another hit, Crowley scowled into the black sand hourglass on his desk. One month until Lucifer rose.

The door to his office creaked open, the ramshackle surroundings and his unwelcome visitor doing nothing to alleviate his plummeting mood. "Sir."

"The hell do you want?"

"She's killed eleven more."

Crowley affected an expression of immense distaste. "Knew that little nutmeg was going to bring me trouble. Suppose it's part of her charm."

"We're sending a team for her, I assume?"

Crowley did his best to look at his underling as though he were a baby who had slobbered on something very important. "You witless skanger. Use the brain the devil gave you. For a moment: think. If Castiel's darling love interest is in fact working for Abaddon, that means she has Abaddon's entire army behind her. Pray tell, Ioan… do you want to go fight an army?"

Ioan had the decency to appear chastened. "No, sir."

"Then get out of my face. Your existence gives me a headache."

Alone again, Crowley reclined back a bit, dark eyes fixed on the unremarkable ceiling. He knew when the moment to strike against Meg would present itself. She would need to be distracted, both emotionally and strategically. She had a weakness he knew all too well how to exploit. In doing that, he could finally put her out of her misery. After all he'd done to her… wasn't that the humane thing to do?

Yes. Because he was still a demon. And he had a throne to reclaim.

Negating any moment of weakness he might have had in the past, he'd never asked for a second chance and he sure as hell didn't want one. But… did he pine for his throne? Did he, really? Being the leader of fallen men entailed deception, murder, torturing those who stood in his way… being alone.

No. It didn't matter how tired of it all he was. So tired of the scheming and the killings and not even knowing who he was anymore. Crowley was no secondhand copy, no radio edit. He not only ruled Hell, it ruled him. There was no choice in the matter. It was who he was. Who he was born—created—to be.

Crowley picked up his transmitter and sent out the call, curling his lips into what he had long-considered his most frightening smile. One he'd perfected to give demons who disobeyed him, one to let them know they were moments from pleading to be dead. "Lola. Darling. Time for another date."

Humans could be evil. Throughout the ages, that fact had been proven in stunning detail.

No matter the affliction that consumed him now… so could he.

help, I have done it again
I have been here many times before
hurt myself again today
and the worst part is there's no one else to blame

Shutting the door to their cabin behind her, Meg took the opportunity to lean heavily against the wood as she heaved a weathered sigh. Most evidence of where she'd been had already healed, but small shockwaves of pain still cantered through her body from a range of injuries. She wiped the remaining blood from her face with a towel, snagging it from the counter in the kitchenette they never used. She hissed a bit, pressing a hand to the cracked ribs she'd sustained at the careless movement. Crossly, she tossed the towel into the sink with some force and considered things.

Her weapons would need to be cleaned and sharpened again. Meg thought that maybe she'd sliced through more bone and cartilage in the last few weeks than she had all year. It didn't really bother her—killing was what she was good at. But the clean up was a bitch. Still, she used to enjoy leaving a bloody trail in her wake, operating on chaos alone.

Lately, however, things were different.

She had to be more careful. Meticulous. The bruises were healing, but they served as a reminder. The demon felt somehow marked by them, tarnished, and all that other symbolic shit. She wasn't clean. She wasn't innocent.

She was doing what had to be done.

Finished washing up, Meg looked around, listening for him. He'd already been gone longer than expected—tracking angels, he said. At the time, she'd tried to badger him out of it, but Cas wasn't hearing any of them. He wasn't hearing her. The pigheadedness came as no surprise, but Meg still couldn't understand it. There was only so much one man could do for those unwilling to be saved, and all he'd gotten out of his past efforts to help was heartache and misery. Not to mention it was dangerous, especially after last time. Cas wasn't stupid, even if he acted like an idiot most of the time—he knew the risks. But, with angels, it never seemed to matter. There were other things he would throw himself into the frying pan for, but Meg was content to chew his ass out on the angels for now. She'd expand her horizons once he made it home alive.

And when had she started referring to Chitaqua as home?

Feeling somewhat pissy in general, Meg remembered how he'd promised to discuss his involvement after the runs. But when she'd gotten back that day, he was already gone. She could have followed him—should have followed him—but was too committed to her own cloak and dagger mission. Shortcomings aside, Meg always finished what she started. While being horns deep in shit was not a nice place to be, it got done what needed done. Sometimes, she had to remind herself of that.

Finding the room empty of him, Meg felt a flare of anxiety wash through her. He still wasn't back, then. Quelling that nagging feeling, she determined to afford him whatever space he apparently needed. Things had still been rocky between them when he'd left, after all—a fact she admittedly wasn't proud of. That thought alone was enough to bring her worry crawling back. If something happened to him… if something happened, and she could have been there…

Meg forced away the dark thought, agitated all over again. Stubborn jackass.

Missing him despite everything and restless with his absence, she expelled a sigh of deep frustration and turned around—only to give a startled yelp at the sight she was met with.

Just out of the light, there he stood, watching her.

Meg heaved a rattled breath, fixing him with her dirtiest look and bullying her suddenly racing heart back under control. "What the hell, Cas?" she snapped. How had he done that? She'd grown accustomed to his appearing act when he'd been an angel, but certainly not when he was powerless. "Trying to see if demons are capable of pissing themselves?"

Her shock was masked with an indignation she hoped he fell for. However, at his lack of response, Meg's eyes narrowed and the anxiety she'd felt before swelled a little higher.

"What's the matter, Daddy Warbucks, no more orphans?"

Castiel continued to say nothing for a long time, merely regarded her with that same empty stare. Meg could barely make out his face, but what she could see was held gaunt by something dark… almost sinister.

"I wasn't looking for angels."

The demon bristled at the confession, her hackles rising. "What?"

The word was sharp like a whip crack, an almost physical punch, but Castiel gave her no sign of life at all. He looked haggard and exhausted, like he hadn't slept in days. And there was something fragile beneath that stone exterior she couldn't understand, something that made him seem desperate and dangerous.

She knew him better than anyone, and she couldn't read him. The realization of that alone was intensely off-putting. Still, despite the hornet's nest of emotions that was assailing her, Meg's anger won out and flared hot in the face of his admittance. "Careful, baby, your pants are on fire and your ass might get burnt." Her tight smile vanished in favor of a scowl. "First those pills, and now this? What's with the lies all of a sudden, because I'm fucking sick of it. And you know I get stabby when I lose my temper." Castiel remained silently livid and calculating as Meg began to berate him. Once more, she tried to crush that sense of worry burgeoning fast in her chest, because something wasn't right about this. Even as her irritation got the better of her and she lashed out, she instinctively knew that it would do no good. "Damn it, what if something had—"

"You?" he uttered then, effectively cutting her off. Castiel's eyes were narrowed, and when he spoke again it was almost a growl. "You think you have any right to lecture me on lies?"

Meg's expression gradually fell, unease beginning to creep along the nape of her neck. The question, artfully worded as an accusation, wasn't what she'd expected. Shifting her weight, she couldn't help but be unnerved by way he was looking at her. He was completely removed, hostile even, and that distance was beginning to alarm her. "What's that supposed to mean? Where were you?"

"Looking for Cain."

Shit. The words sent an arrow of fear lancing through her, and the apprehension Meg felt rose to a fever pitch. Cas, no, she immediately thought. It had to be for Dean. No other reason, it couldn't be. But why else would he be looking at her like that?

Her body's heart rate spiked all over again. "Have you lost whatever's left of that void you call a brain?" Her sudden fear for him was no ruse, but she focused on it all the same—wishing desperately that he would follow suit. "Goddamn it, Castiel, he could have killed you! Why would—"

"You look scared, Meg." He was advancing towards her now, the intensity in his voice quiet and shocking. "Are you so certain it's because of your concern for my wellbeing? Or is there another reason?"

She'd been so set to apologize to him, to assure herself that he was safe, but the unexpected attack made her catty and defensive instead. And she sure as hell wasn't in the mood for these games. "What other reason would there be? More importantly, eighty-six the righteous asshole bullshit, or—"

"Stop."

"Stop what?"

His reply was immediate and menacing. "Stop. Lying."

Terrible doubt seized around the demon like a vice, because it was then that Meg caught sight of the angel blade gripped tight in his hand. "What the hell is that for?" she demanded, a tinge of panic leaking into her voice.

Blue eyes dropped momentarily to the treacherous gleam of steel. "I haven't decided."

The words hit her like a ton of bricks, and Meg felt as though all the air had been sucked out of the room. "Jesus, Castiel."

"Do I need it?"

But she had no answer for him, and that lack of reply frightened him as few things in his long life ever had.

Castiel's eyes remained cold and warring against hers, and his voice left no room for dispute as it lowered to a razor sharp command. "You're going to answer every question I ask you, and you're going to do so truthfully. Am I clear?"

The demon had taken an anxious step back, her small host body riddled with tension. "Put that blade away, and we'll have a fucking tea party for all I care."

Had he completely lost it? Meg couldn't believe what she was seeing—there was only one other time she'd ever been this scared of him, and even then… it hadn't really been him at all.

"You think this is for you?" he retorted, and the lack of any affection was startling. "Because I haven't decided whose heart I'll be putting it through. Yours or mine."

Uriel's voice filled his head from years ago, unbidden. With you, we can be strong enough to raise our brother.

How long had they been trying to turn him?

He would never allow himself to be a tool, never again. In the midst of that, he couldn't bear the thought that, of all people… not her. Castiel didn't think he could live with that.

Meg couldn't reconcile whether she should take a step back from him out of fear, or reach out to him for the very same reason. She'd never seen him like this before—not even when they'd been enemies. "Is this… is this about the runs?"

"We can start there."

She gathered herself at the abrasive reply, ignoring that inborn instinct to flee or fight. This, she could smooth over. This was nothing. He'd be pissed, but he'd understand. "I wasn't lying. Not really. I told you those runs were for Kevin, and they were. He and I had an arrangement. I'd hunt down Crowley, he'd keep his mouth shut about it, and in the process I'd help him find his mom."

Castiel was unreadable. "Why keep it from me?"

"Is that really so hard to wrap your head around?" Maintaining her cool demeanor was a struggle, and Meg's voice wavered, instantly giving away her trepidation. Dark eyes never strayed from his blade for long as she filled in the blanks. "You would have tried to stop me. You have too much on your shoulders as it is, and the kid didn't want shit hitting the fan anymore than I did. Especially with the way Dean was bitching at him lately." It was also true that she worked better alone, or at least used to. It was what she knew—for a long time, all she knew. It was messy, but it got the job done, and it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission.

And she'd been close. So close to finding Crowley, to worming her way back into the game, and everything was falling into place… yet… why now did it feel as though everything was falling apart?

"I know it was shitty. But I was trying to help."

"How considerate of you." Castiel's tone held no warmth at all, and none of the animosity had fled from his eyes. "You expect me to believe that?"

Meg bristled, just barely holding back her wry retort. "I had to do it the way I did."

"Why?" he instantly demanded, stepping into her space in a manner that was deliberately meant to intimidate. "Why did you have to do it that way?"

Meg's lips pressed into a grim line, not appreciating the power play but understanding she owed him the explanation. More, she saw the hurt buried there beneath the anger and sought to make it right. "I needed him to think I was working for Abaddon. For Crowley to believe it… you had to believe it."

As soon as the words left her mouth, Meg knew it was a mistake. All emotion disappeared from Castiel's face, what little there was to begin with, leaving only that arctic coldness in his eyes. His jaw tightened, all light in the room seeming to avoid him completely, and he was utterly inscrutable to her.

Frustrated and somewhat cornered, Meg shook her head at his silence. "If Crowley thinks I have Abaddon backing me, it buys me some time. He won't send a firing squad if he thinks they'll all die. It's just me. I needed to forge some kind of back up. This isn't the first time I've rigged the chess board, I know what I'm doing."

"So you played me," Castiel surmised flatly. "Me."

"Like I said. I had to." Reviling her actions more and more, Meg's expression lost its mask of neutrality. This wasn't going well, not for either of them. She hadn't found any pleasure in deceiving him, and it was bizarre to think she ever had. Any thought of hurting him now brought her no amount of peace or sense of superiority, and for him to believe otherwise was devastating. "Don't for a second think you mean nothing to me. You know better than that."

Everything she was, everything she became, it was all through him. He had to know that. Didn't he?

Meg waited for the murder to leave his eyes. She waited for him to put away that blade, but neither of those things happened. Her dark gaze roved over him carefully, searched his face, and then she realized… shit. There was more.

A chill stole over the demon then, icy dread making her voice catch. "This isn't just about the runs, is it?"

If his words and expression were killing her, the effect was the same for him. Despite the empty veneer he wore, Castiel appeared somehow physically in pain at her words, as though he'd been expecting a falsehood and had gotten one. His eyes had glazed over and, even though he was looking right at her, he didn't appear to be seeing her at all.

"Cas?"

Her voice gave him a forged sense of security, and Castiel tried to ignore it.

No.

He reeled, wrestling with himself and trying to get a handle on his emotions. Everything now made him wonder at her sincerity. If any of it had ever been real at all. If she was lying to him, even now. For so long, he'd been certain it was too good to be true. That having her with him, despite the state the world was in, was too good to be true. She was everything he wanted, and she'd been his. But… had he been right, all along? In that present moment, it felt as though he was losing everything that ever mattered to him. Castiel questioned his own sanity, his choices, reality itself.

Meg saw that panic and internal conflict and immediately tried reaching out, thinking that maybe something was actually wrong with him. "Hey…"

In an act that startled her completely, he yanked himself out of her touch and became instantly defensive, shouting at her. "Don't touch me!"

Visibly shocked, Meg saw that the blank façade he'd kept fixtured was now gone—in its place an alarming mixture of rage and despair. She lost most of her defiance, the dread and confusion she'd felt before now spilling over for the world to see.

Castiel went on venomously, in a voice so burdened with pain and accusation, because this was how it was going to end. "Cain told me, Meg. He told me everything—about how Lucifer chose you to corrupt me. How you were supposed to twist me into an enemy against Heaven."

The demon in front of him went instantly cold, all color draining from her face. That look alone was in so many ways an answer to the questions burning in his mind, and Castiel saw red. His expression twisted, like he couldn't stand the sight of her, or couldn't bear to be breathing—Meg couldn't tell which and she feared to know.

"And you believe him?" she asked. The velvet notes of her voice had fallen somewhat faint as all resentment faltered in place of something far worse. Guilt.

Castiel saw it and wanted to die. Still, in spite of everything, he couldn't help the reckless desperation he felt for her to prove him wrong. Even as he confronted her with such finality, every fiber in him fought against all logic to go to her. To reach out, to touch her, to lose himself despite every ounce of reasoning he possessed. She had ruined him, unmade him. "What reason has he to lie, Meg?"

She appeared affronted by that, even hurt. As though he was the one with the pieces of silver in his hand. "But I have reason?"

"You have every reason!" Castiel yelled. Righteous anger slammed through him in the face of her denial, and with each passing moment, he became colder and more resigned.

Meg promptly abandoned whatever composure she'd had before. "I've bled for you, Castiel." Red lips parted around the snarling reminder, but there was terrible vulnerability to the words as she said them. Her voice, even in the face of her blustering rage, shook like a violin string about to snap. Her angel was like a stranger, barraging her as though she were the enemy. As though the past year together had meant nothing. "I stayed with you!"

Even she seemed to realize how little that statement helped her case while only proving his.

All Castiel could think was: that's not an answer. He saw how gutted she was by his accusations, but with each moment that passed where she said nothing, his darkest fears grew and grew, imagination working up one nightmarish scenario after another. He fought the urge to pace, battled the doubts and second guesses which told him he'd lost his mind. His eyes bored into hers, wild and angry but still with that small breadth of hope.

"Were you planning this from the beginning? All of this? The hospital, helping me, dying—" Meg opened her mouth to protest, looking as though she were about to refute it all again with hurt indignation instead of any real answer. The callous authority in his low voice cut her off. "Answer me!" At her prolonged silence, Castiel shook his head, growing frantic and feeling rent in half. "Tell me you didn't, Meg. Tell me, and I'll listen. Say something!"

The truth was said when she said nothing at all. Meg's expression wavered and eventually fell, and she looked away in grave resignation, confirming everything with her silence.

Shell-shocked, Castiel stared at her as if he didn't know her. Like he didn't recognize her at all, and couldn't decide if having the truth was better or infinitely worse.

The only person in the room who looked more defeated than him was Meg. "It started out that way," she said quietly.

He reacted in blank disbelief at the admission, looking like he'd been punched in the gut. "I defended you," he said, whisper-soft, the stain of betrayal bleeding into his words. "I believed in you."

Mortified, Meg instantly protested, taking a charged step forward. Her voice rang loud and clear like the shattering of glass, and it looked as though she might shatter too. "Don't you say that to me, Castiel. Don't you—!"

With a tight voice, he cut her off. "How did it end?"

He ignored the itch in his bones to reach out and abandon that malevolent resolve eating away at him, because he couldn't be weak. That long-gone instinct to burn her out flickered idly again now beneath the surface, as though something in his brain had reactivated. Something that didn't belong there, but compelled him all the same. Even in his outraged state, he could feel the phantom strings pull taught, commanding his every move.

"Meg," he snapped at her confused pause. For a moment, he seemed almost automatonic. Like he'd remembered his programming. "You said it started out as orders. How did it end?"

Meg hesitated, wishing for once that he would let it go. She'd back him on anything else if he would just leave this one alone. Pride flared inside her heart, defiant even in the face of her shamed surrender. But Castiel's harsh, aggrieved expression may as well have been an angel blade piercing through her ribs. Forlorn with herself, she answered him. "The plan fell apart once you threw me in that ring of fire. After that… Lucifer was in the Cage. You and the Winchesters had won. It didn't matter."

"So there was no point?" he asked, voice ringing hollow even to his own ears. "No purpose?"

Meg wanted to scream.

"There was purpose. But not for Hell."

She hadn't just been exiled because of Crowley putting a price on her head. She was ostracized without end for the things she did with the wayward little angel standing in front of her, demanding answers she couldn't possibly give. For the things she felt for him, gave for him. But, at Castiel's expression, Meg had no more hope now than she did moments ago.

"You still think I'm working for Abaddon," she surmised. He could see she was visibly rent raw, withering. "What if I was? What would you do?"

She feared the answer.

So did he.

"I don't know," Castiel admitted grimly, his rough features clouded with indecision.

"You don't know," Meg muttered, dodging his eyes. She tried to sound patronizing. "Well, I'm gonna need a little more than that, angel."

"What do you want me to do, Meg?" he demanded in a hard voice, stepping closer. "What do you expect me to do?"

Out of things to say, Meg just looked down, feeling like utter shit and wishing for the times when he would tell her how it was going to be okay, that they'd get through this like they did everything else. But there was no gentle touch, no tender words shared in a whisper between them now. No reassurance of affection.

It was never supposed to be like this, she thought, becoming desolate. How had their roles shifted? How did it always seem to fall apart, just when they needed each other most? No matter what adversity threw at her, no matter the wars she had to fight—whether against Hell or in herself—Castiel had always been her lighthouse in the storm. She couldn't lose that, not again. She couldn't do this without him anymore. He'd wrecked her. "I want you to believe in me."

Some of his anger faded at that, hard lines falling away. The tempest looking back at her softened without meaning to, and the cold resolve he wore like armor cracked and began to thaw. That voice in the back of his head abated, drowned out by something else.

Meg was everything.

Castiel would love her to the point of ruin, until both their lungs were filled with ash. Even as he looked at her now, even as she was surely deceiving him before his very eyes, the fallen angel irrevocably knew it changed nothing.

He belonged to her.

With terrible realization, he saw that the things he felt could not be smothered within a day, nor any lifetime. No matter the cost, and despite that the devotion he felt was wounded and limping in the wake of such treachery, Castiel saw her. He saw the lies, the deception, and knew he would still do anything for her. The thought terrified him as nothing else ever had, and it found him mired at an impossible crossroads. Except… this time it wasn't his soul on the line. It was his heart.

All at once, they both realized how disastrous the situation had become. Hatred meshed clearly with the pain Meg wore but tried so hard to hide—hatred of him, of herself.

"If you're so convinced I'm your Judas, kill me."

He couldn't, of course. Even as he still gripped that blade tight in his hand, no such thing would ever happen. He couldn't, and she knew it. He'd been ready to—out of his mind with the realization that he might have to—but no. He ground out his next words, unable to reconcile the decision he needed to make. "I'm trying to believe you, Meg, I'm trying. But you have to give me something."

"Give you something?" Her own fury rose up in spite of her panic. With it, Meg closed in on him, voice becoming high and uncontrolled. "I've given you everything!"

"And I haven't?" Meg's fire abruptly faded as Castiel's conviction grew. It made his voice emotional as he threw that anger back in her face. "I have sacrificed everything for your sake! Done everything in my power to keep you safe! My motives have only ever been to help you, and now I find it's been for nothing?"

Never, she wanted to tell him. How dare he think it meaningless, how dare he! It was like taking a splash of holy water to the face, but Meg saw how deeply that hurt went, how shaken to the core he truly was. The sight of it made her want to grovel, because she was the one who put it there.

"When I trust someone, the world always pays the price… don't you betray me, not you—" Castiel broke off, teeth gritting against the words, and he squeezed his eyes shut briefly. When he opened them again, he stared at her with clear anguish and a longing so conflicted it hurt to look at him. "I love you, Meg."

The words were like a gunshot between them.

Meg shrank beneath the weight of that confession, fear gripping her with icy talons. He loved her. She knew that he did, but to hear him say it… the last time he'd said those words to her, everything had fallen apart. It had nearly killed them both. It was a trigger, and he didn't even realize.

Why was nothing ever simple? Why did this bond have to break them?

"I love you. Despite every instinct I have screaming at me right now that I shouldn't… I can't stop. I can't wash that clean." With every harrowed word, Castiel took a step closer, became more impassioned. "I'd sooner kill myself than hurt you at all, and it's…" His eyes, beseeching as they looked into hers, grew mournful. That deep voice a little less steady. "Just… please. Be honest with me. I know there's more—something you're not telling me. Mialon, I don't care why. I don't care that you've been lying. Just… tell me… what is going on." He stared at her with a helpless, gutted expression, and Meg couldn't bear to see him like that. Softly, Castiel asked her, "Don't I at least deserve that much?"

His grief was palpable, and Meg wished she could comfort him. He was begging her to, and her fortitude was crumbling around her like pillars of sand. Overwhelmed still by his confession, she was consumed by thoughts of her own inadequacy and failure. Her depravity, her cowardice—all things a demon should never feel at all. It ran through her mind in a dark loop. She'd been trying to do the right thing, and how pitiable it was for a beast to harbor such motivations. How perverse, because of course those motivations would never end well for a thing like her. Despite this, Meg felt more and more of that sickening doubt deep down inside, about her choice to keep something so critical from him. She really was despicable.

For months, she'd felt that every time they were together, surely this time Castiel would discover everything, surely this time he would catch her in a lie. It was who she was, and yet… a small part of her hated to mislead him. More, she hated who she was becoming because of it.

Had it ever been a desire to protect him? Or was it simply her own self-preservation that ruled her actions?

"How'd you ever allow yourself to feel anything for me?" she wondered miserably to herself.

Castiel gestured powerlessly. "I don't know," he grated out, and that desperate edge had not left his voice. It felt as though a steel band was tightening around his chest as he awaited what she might say. Needing her still to just say something. "I asked you once… if you knew something I didn't, would you tell me? You never answered."

Meg heard the silent plea even before he said it. Her stomach dropped to her feet when she realized what would come next. What he was asking of her now. Feeling suddenly suffocated, she began to retreat, shaking her head. "No. I can't. I can't."

Not now. Not ever.

Castiel lost all sense of composure he'd managed to uphold. Meg was clamming up, withdrawing from him, and he was going to lose her. Pitching forward, his blade was forgotten as he seized hold of her shoulders. "Meg, no! No. Don't shut me out! Talk to me! I can't help you if you say nothing. Look at me!"

"You can't ask this of me—not this!"

"I am asking, because there's no one else! There's something missing in my head and I can't… it's right there, I can feel it, but no matter what I do, I can't touch it." Castiel's voice was strained and hoarse, growing less angry and more just genuinely dismayed. Her eyes tried to look away again, but he forcibly shook her. "Damn it, Meg, just tell me!"

Terror. Blind terror filled her to the brim at the thought of telling him everything. Too many times, she'd been burned. She had sacrificed everything with him before. Confessed things she never spoke of to anyone. It was the only time she'd ever opened herself up, and it had backfired horrifically. It was being back in Hell, the very definition of insanity. She couldn't do that again. She couldn't go through it again. She couldn't.

But Castiel was standing there, a breath away and sheer hopelessness stark on his face. He asked her for the truth, he asked her again for everything, and Meg was utterly powerless to deny him. No matter what she said next, he'd likely flay her, but she couldn't bear to see that look on his face any longer.

She weighed the risk—protect herself and chance losing him, or lay it all on the line right here and now. In that wild, devastating moment, Meg experienced a strange moment of clarity. Even scared out of her wits… she would always choose him.

"Ol hoath," said the demon finally, emotion filling her voice. The words, her expression, were a wrecking ball against his anger. All the air rushed out of his lungs, her reply leaving him mute and breathless. "Aishh lit apachana oe mtif cnila, od malpirg oe mtif ooanoan."

Castiel stared at her, mystified and somewhat afraid. "How do you know those words? How… how do you know Enochian?"

Meg looked down, grasping for a bravery she'd always kept on hand, but which seemed to desert her now. She stalled for a moment, visibly struggling for a response of some kind, and then destroyed him. "You used to speak it to me." When she looked up at him again, Castiel was startled to see those dark eyes shining with tears. "You came to kill me that night."

Not unlike this very moment. No matter what they did, time seemed to always trap them in the same infinite loop.

"Which night?"

"After the hellhounds."

Crowley's prison? He presumed that was what she meant. After Sam and Dean had him destroy those creatures inside. After she had kissed him. Four years and five months ago. Castiel's brow drew together, evidence of his not understanding. "No," he said, shaking his head. "I… returned to Heaven."

"No. You didn't. But Naomi made sure you remembered it that way."

Time for Castiel seemed to grind to a halt, every sense on high alert. Even as alarm bells sounded in his head, warning him to turn back, it was too late now. Faintly, losing color, he asked, "How do you know about Naomi?"

He dreaded the answer as much as he physically needed it.

In the end, there really was never any choice at all. Because as much as she was terrified by the thought of losing him again, of yet another heartbreak, the thought of hurting him ever again far outweighed any risk that faced her now. In the end, it would be worth it.

Bracing herself for the fallout, Meg told him the truth. She told him everything.

"She's the reason I died."

every brick and every stone
of the world we made will come undone
in my sleep I call your name
I need to feel you here with me
let it all fall down to dust

NOVEMBER 2009

In fact, it started before any kiss. It started in a ring of fire.

The first time she laid eyes on him, she hated him. And she could tell it was mutual. Oh, was it mutual.

It didn't even take him casting her into the flames for her to notice. No, it was in his eyes, and scribed over every inch of his face. Those eyes that pierced through her and ruined her in a glance—a cold blue that willed her to dust, to nothingness, and reflected that she was beneath him. It wasn't possible for that haunting, otherworldly shade to belong to his vessel. It had to be his light, his grace bleeding through and making them so vivid. He was stunning, even more so than Lucifer, though she'd never say so. She valued her life, after all, so she played up her veneration of the archangel over the humble Power. The Devil drank it in with his usual soft-spoken, paternal menace, and then left her to her work.

Years from now, Meg would never understand her devotion to the father of her race. But perhaps she'd been looking for a light in the dark, and his was the first to offer her anything remotely akin to hope.

Until Castiel.

The demon regarded her only natural predator, a brutal being built specifically to destroy her. He was the cosmos of the universe and she was the lake of fire, both eternal and deadly in their own right.

That angel wanted her dead. Meg wondered if she could humiliate him, what power over an angel might look like. So she circled him slow, tossing honeyed smiles and vinegar taunts at him through the rolling heat. Tried to get under his skin to see what made him tick. "We're going to heaven, Clarence!"

She savored every emotion to skip over that enigmatic face while she had him trapped at her mercy. Lucifer said this little angel was hers to disfigure, and Meg considered herself privileged. Upon learning her mission, the news had of course delighted her. But now, seeing this angel for the first time, something ancient and long forgotten stirred in her bones.

An ember inside her flickered brighter and, like a moth captivated by the light, she couldn't shake the invisible undertow that had her itching to approach him. Suddenly, she was the one being tempted. He had nowhere to go, snared in the fiery prison her master built, but… even still as a statue, he seemed restless. His eyes never once left her face, riveted to her as she rounded the edge of the fire. The expression he wore was intense, and she could see the wheels turning. While he said very little, distracted almost by the presence that confronted him, Meg could see how he was deconstructing her.

He was hers.

Meg would lay the traps and set the hook. Castiel would spring them, powerless against her, because no one alive had ever rivaled her charm. She was the serpent in the grass, the temptress with the poison kiss. She was venerated, feared, and Lucifer had chosen her for this game of seduction.

For centuries, she'd worn that guile crown. She'd be wearing it still when that cloudhopper eventually lost himself to her sinful touch.

But then she was stumbling over the flames, and they were suddenly a breath apart. The tables turned, well-laid plans shuddering off their axis with little fanfare. Coated arms encased her like steel and drew her deceptively close, like a lover might. Meg could practically taste that halo surrounding him as he towered over her with solemn menace, the very picture of forbidden fruit, which unwittingly appealed to her in ways not even she thought possible. A new feeling swept over her then at his proximity, and the beast inside her smiled, mistaking it for triumph. She loved a challenge, and he was already snared, noose hanging off his neck for her to take hold of. How delicious it would be to corrupt something so pure. His innocence was like a magnet, and she wanted more.

Meg waited, leaning in. Enticing, maybe even hoping. Go on, angel. Just a little stumble.

His eyes had softened at that—after he realized he couldn't smite her, of course. He was looking at her differently, though. Strangely. It was brief, fleeting, but he seemed almost spellbound for the barest breadth of a moment.

She laughed breathlessly up into his face, in awe of him even as she cut him down. "You can't gank demons, can you?" Another laugh and she was leaning into him, all but purring the invitation across his lips. "Well, what can you do, you impotent sap?"

It could have been her imagination, but then he narrowed their distance of his own accord, inching closer, bright eyes drinking her in. Meg's lips began to curl into a wicked smile.

Until everything about him darkened—"I can do this."—and she was falling into the flames, her own screams filling the deserted room as he stepped over her and… left. Able to do little else but watch in agony as his form disappeared, Meg realized she'd been outwitted—she, a demon. By an angel.

Crawling painfully from the fire licking at her stolen body, her pride in shambles, Meg vowed to rip out those pretty wings herself.

Oh, but she'd fallen into more than just flame that day. She'd fallen head over heels.

big blue eyes
what does he want from me?
wishing on the stars, wonder what you are
I just don't know, he's beautiful
maybe he shines a little more than me
up in flames we go, you fire breather

JULY 2010

How far from grace had he fallen since that day?

As the new war began in Heaven, Castiel's attentions should have been solely focused on commanding his army. Defeating Raphael. Grudgingly, he reminded himself that this was a compulsory means to an end for that very cause. No different than any other unsavory choice he'd found his hands stained with in the name of freedom.

The end, of course, was victory against his enemies. The means: finding and interrogating monsters whom could pave a path directly to Purgatory.

He tried to ignore the whisper at the back of his thoughts. The voice of Sam, his friend, praying to him from far away. Castiel felt far away. He was mired on his own personal island, with oceans standing between him and reason. The angel ignored the prayers, because it was all he could do. Something was wrong—very wrong—with Sam Winchester. Castiel had an inkling suspicion of what it might be, but the thought repelled him.

He had to discover the cause of it all. He knew already of course, deep down, but his pride swore that it couldn't possibly be that. He had so many sins piling up against him, yet no time to right them all—which was precisely the reason he'd landed where he was now.

The alpha vampire was paramount, Crowley said. Thus far, Samuel Campbell and his family of hunters had little to no fortune in tracking it, and so they'd focused their resources elsewhere. For how long, Castiel wasn't sure. So here he was, tearing up the supernatural underworld: monster hunting. Pursuing vampires through the sewage and muck, in search of their maker. Despicable.

When the first rushed him, fangs bared in a foaming snarl, Castiel knocked it aside into a load-bearing wall. The brick and mortar blew apart on impact, and the ceiling gave a shuddering groan overhead. Dust and filth showered down in a choking mist as the others swarmed, lending credibility to the notion that they had no idea what he was.

Wrath bringer.

Castiel's expression fell in a moue of disgust as he slammed his palm onto one forehead after another, summoning his power and unleashing that wrath without heart.

Harsh bursts of blinding light filled the decrepit room, vanquishing shadows, while tan coattails sliced through the air like the beating of wings. Bones and cartilage shattered under each punishing touch, the vampire death cries filling his vessel's ears and echoing down the building's halls. Castiel required only one for his purposes. The remainder of the nest was little more than a loose end to be dealt with, and a source of venting his frustrations.

A bloody scream erupted from the nearest next, silenced by the arc of steel that tore through its vocal chords as the angel called upon his blade. It was plunged through a handful more of undead hearts, renting the head from one body completely in a gory spectacle. The pieces crumpled at Castiel's feet as he crossed over them, his sights leveled on the sole survivor.

The vampire gaped in staunch horror as its entire nest was brutally slaughtered in mere moments. It scrambled backwards in a panic then at the awful sight coming towards him. "The fuck are you?!"

"Tired," Castiel replied dangerously. His voice scraped like sandpaper over gravel, abrasive and holding a clear threat. In his hand, the angel blade was poised to strike, hungry for the spill of more blood. He desired for this impediment to be over, so beneath him it was. "Where is your master?"

The vampire was rattled by the question, and perhaps even more afraid than before. "W—what? He'll destroy me if I tell you anything!"

Castiel pursued the creature as it backpedaled, his patience terminating and his tone falling almost sinister. "He won't have the chance." The vampire balked under the true menace staring him down. Even as dead eyes glinted fierce and fangs bared in a cornered snarl, it knew fear. The room itself seemed to darken around them as the angel towered over his inferior. "You're wasting my time, leech. Time I don't have. So you will die quickly, or you will die slowly—decide."

Any reply was cut short as the sound of heels clacking against the rotted wood floor carried from behind Castiel's back. The unexpected intrusion provoked his already blistering temper, and so he turned his head to level a brimstone glare at the lithe form that slipped into view, much like how a snake might slither from the grass.

The demon woman from the ring of fire.

Meg.

An electric current ricocheted down his spine at the sight of her, and Castiel considered several expletives he could utter, but discarded them all as unworthy. Danger and something else stirred just behind his ribs, not unlike the reaction he felt upon their first meeting.

"You."

Meg tsked her tongue, shaking her head in grisly appreciation of the picture set in front of her. "My, my," she said. Her usual get-up adorned her small stature, hair spilling over a leather-clad shoulder in a tangle of dark curls. To complete the ensemble, she wore a shit-eating expression that seemed designed to burrow under his skin. "A fine mess you've made, cloudhopper." The demon stepped over the bodies, heedless of any danger, and offered Castiel a lopsided smile that was too disarming to be genuine. She pointed at the cowering vampire. "I need that one alive."

Without taking his eyes off of her, the angel lashed out with his blade, burying it back into the monster's heart and killing it just to spite her. His expression silently dared her to challenge him for it.

Meg's smile fell. "Well, now that was shitty."

Castiel removed the blade with a sickening squelch, and the body crumpled at his feet to the floor. He ignored her baleful stare, a thousand ways suspicious of her sudden appearance, and asked, "What do you want with a vampire?"

"Gosh, you know? I guess I just really loved Twilight." At his predictable non-reaction, Meg arched a single eyebrow pointedly. "Could ask you the same."

"I asked you first."

The demon laughed, despite that his dispassion to her was as maddening as she remembered. "Are all angels giant five year olds, or is that exclusive to you?"

Castiel's expression was grave, cold features showing annoyance at the inconvenience of her presence. "I existed before time itself was formed from the abyss, demon."

"Someone's a little full of himself." Meg canted her head, unable to mask her curiosity. Dark eyes combed boldly over him, in a manner that was somewhat unsettling. "You still shooting blanks, Clarence?"

His brow quirked at that, dark head angling slightly to the side as though he didn't quite follow. But he surprised her then. "If you're implying whether I'm still unable to smite you…" There was a flutter of wings and a short burst of wind, and suddenly he was directly in front of her. "The limitations I had then no longer afflict me now. I could, if I saw fit, lay you to waste here and now." Blue eyes seared over her in threat, so close she could see the supernal flecks of grace simmering beneath their stormy surface. His voice became soft with menace. "There would be no returning to the Pit, no more of your precious hellfire. Only death."

The angel was a breath from destroying her, that much was clear. For a second, Meg felt the buzz of fear graze down her spine. It passed quickly, even as his heated words seared into her skin as keenly as a circle of flames once had. "Speaking of fire…" she began. Without further preamble, the demon reached down to lift up her shirt, exposing her stomach. Her voice became a velvet threat. "Take a look at what you did to me, you angelic prick. You're lucky I don't light you up like a Roman candle for the trouble."

Castiel's attention fell from her face to the scars. Something inscrutable flickered behind his gaze before those eyes climbed slowly back to hers.

Meg remembered lying in the fire for those few seconds, still not quite sure what had happened. One minute she'd been in his arms, the next she'd been on the floor, burning. She'd put the fire out and rolled onto her back, furious and feeling where he'd stepped on her to escape. Despite her anger, she couldn't help but laugh.

He was something new. Different. Not quite pure, but not down to her level, either. She wondered how much convincing it'd take to get him to stoop a little lower. It wasn't even the remnants of her original mission—orders to drag him through the brimstone and mud with her. Lucifer was halo deep in the Cage, after all. It was much different than that. She hated him, sure, and yet thrilled at whatever torment she could bring him, perversely proud for it. But, more than that… Meg also recognized a golden opportunity when she saw one. And she was nothing if not a survivor.

What did she have to lose?

If she could survive the Winchesters, she could survive anything.

"You know," she murmured, eyes combing down his form to rest on the angel blade he held. Just like before, if this wasn't him threatening her, it could have been the lead in to something else. Brazen and filled with a sudden overwhelming desire for him, Meg reached up to straighten the folds of his lapel, which had become rumpled in the earlier fight. "I thought I'd nearly had you for a minute there."

Him pulling her body right up against his, so close her eyes couldn't focus, talking so she hung off his every word? Had he not flung her into the fire, she'd have called it seduction. Maybe she would anyway.

Meg recalled the pain of it, the wounds resisting her attempts to heal them. The holy fire had left burns far too deep, and Lucifer had refused to heal her because she failed to keep Castiel contained. He'd wanted more time to work on this angel, and her task—much like she, herself—had gone up in flames. Retaining the scars was punishment. Bizarrely, she'd grown almost fond of them.

Castiel stared down his nose at her, unruffled. Much like before, his presence was distracting. Charged. "I'm curious why you didn't simply take a new host and leave the woman inside to deal with it."

Meg needed more of that daredevil thrill that being in close proximity to this angel brought her. Like a brush with death, unsafe and unlike anything else she'd ever felt. She could get drunk on it. "What sort of monster do you take me for, Castiel?" Her smile was tight, mocking him while still a remaining a challenge. The angel remained unimpressed with her ironic humor. Meg didn't care one way or the other, but she was determined to get a rise out of him. "Good hosts are hard to find, but you know that already, don't you? Besides… you sure seemed to like this one." She cocked a hip, squaring her shoulders in a manner that accentuated her body's finest features.

That got his attention, for all the wrong reasons of course. Castiel looked almost mystified by the postulation, brow slanting in stern bewilderment. "Your host I'm indifferent towards, and you are the thing I was created to destroy. In what ways does that indicate favor to you?"

"You sure are a grumpy little shit," she remarked, seeming to simper in the face of his denial. The demon was too high on her own arrogance to be offended anyways, and she rolled her eyes at his stony silence. "I know you haven't killed me yet because you just can't help but be curious. The hell's a demon want with a fang, right?"

That was part of the reason for his curiosity, yes. The other part was somewhat more… opaque. Something he couldn't pin down. He'd felt regret, casting her into those flames. Something he should never have felt in dealing with the likes of her, this demon. Even now, it wasn't just the potential for information that was staying his hand from killing her. It was frustrating—could almost infuriate him, if he let it. Castiel's expression, despite his running thoughts, nonetheless betrayed nothing except that he was waiting for her to go on.

"I'm after Crowley."

His eyes narrowed sharply. "Crowley?"

Meg saw the reaction there, but assumed it a natural response to hearing the King of Hell's name uttered aloud. After all, she wasn't the only thing in Creation who despised the smarmy dick. "Let's just say I have a little vendetta against the pantywaist. Pretty sure he's gunning for me, too. Long story less boring: I got wind from some shifter that he was torturing monsters."

Something unpleasant churned in his gut, and Castiel shifted restlessly. He summoned a look of uncertainty and shook his head. "Torturing monsters? Why would he do that?"

"Don't have the foggiest. Apparently boredom comes with the throne." Meg dropped her lighthearted attitude. "What do you think I was trying to find out before you fucking kabobbed my only lead?" The snapping reminder was sharp in the empty room, her aloof demeanor now becoming indignant. "While we're on the subject, what the hell's an angel doing smiting vampires? Aren't they a little below your pay grade?" Her smile was cold in the face of his glare. "Or are you and the rest of the winged fairies just as bored out of your skull as the King of Hell, now that the war's over?"

"The war isn't over," Castiel retorted. It was never over—a despicable truth he was becoming all too aware of. "And these vampires were killing humans. I stopped them."

It wasn't necessarily a lie. Surely they were feeding on humans, killing several in the process, but that of course was not why he was after them. In any case, what he did was no business of hers.

"What, so… avenging angel vigilante? That's cute. What about the wonder twins? Thought this was their department?"

Castiel was becoming agitated. Expression fierce, he cut his eyes back to her in anger. "They're occupied. And none of your concern."

Meg raised her hands in a grudging gesture of peace. "Stow the wrath, would you? Believe me, I don't give a shit about those two. But I do have a proposal."

"A proposal," he parroted, instantly suspicious.

"You're so bored out of your skull, you're hunting vampires. You hate Crowley, I hate Crowley. Ever heard of 'I scratch your back, you scratch mine'?"

"I'm not scratching your back."

Meg's smile was less cutting than usual, even approaching sincere. "It's a metaphor, you precious twit. You want monsters to snuff out, I can point you in the direction of some." She brushed past him, bumping his shoulder with hers and tossing a look of shrewd affection back at him. "Scouring the underbelly is so much easier when you're pals with a bellycrawler, wouldn't you say?"

Had he heard her correctly? She couldn't possibly be suggesting what he thought she was suggesting.

Castiel's features screwed up in disbelief as he swung around to look at her. "You want us to work together?"

He looked appalled, but the demon wasn't joking this time. Meg looked him dead in the eye, prepared for the rain of fire in the event this little parlay went south. "Right now I'm stuck in an army of one situation. It sucks. Back up would be nice. You be my muscle, I'll feed you monsters. Deal?"

"That is… absurd." Even as he said it, that forceful look in his eyes was fading into questioning curiosity.

"Good, so we agree. Shall we shake on it, or seal it with a kiss?"

At the mirth dancing in her dark eyes, Castiel was grim. "I did not agree to anything."

Meg would've had to be blind to miss the heated look he smothered with a mask of indifference. Well, then. Scarlet lips pulled apart in a sly twist like some bad omen. "You didn't shoot me down, either. I'll take what I can get."

Castiel deliberated. He could use the assistance. He could not keep hunting monsters, couldn't keep unearthing their locations on his own time. He had a war to fight. A war to win. With this demon in their corner, however unwittingly… he could feed whatever information she gave him to Crowley. Crowley could give that information to Samuel Campbell. It would expedite things, and he could concentrate his efforts back on Heaven.

Still… the idea left him ill at heart. Yet another thing he couldn't allow himself to care about. "Yes, fine," he agreed at last, as though uttering the words had him choking on shards of glass. "We'll ally, for now. As a temporary solution."

Meg's cheeks dimpled with the force of her grin. "Now that's a heavenly choir to my ears." She extended her hand for him to take. "This is gonna be fun, Clarence. We're going to have a hell of a time."

Her spirited laugh did something to him. And, if Castiel hadn't been regretting his decision before, he sure as hell was now. He eyed the offering warily, a few more death threats hanging on the tip of his tongue. But… eventually, the blade vanished from his hand, and he reached out to grasp hers in the makings of an unsteady pact.

The demon's skin was cool to the touch, softer than he might have imagined, and very unlike the brush with hellfire he'd been expecting. Perhaps it was a guise. He couldn't be sure. Everything about her was a cunning mystery, a puzzle he couldn't solve, and he should have harbored zero inclination towards her to begin with.

Don't trust her, don't trust her. Just another means to an end.

But from the moment they touched, it was a sealing of fate. One of Castiel's greatest weaknesses after all had been seeing beauty in even the most shadowed of places. And Meg… she always had favored the stars over what lay below them.

"Hmm." The quiet murmur snared the angel out of his thoughts and, when his eyes refocused, Meg was considering him thoughtfully. The curve of her lips was measured and careful, delight at his discomfort prominent in her eyes. "Here, I'd have thought you'd pitch a holy bitch fit at the idea of working with a demon. You're just full of surprises, aren't you?"

Was that guilt that skirted across the blue gaze pinning her down? She barely had time to think on it because, in the next second, there was a flutter of wings and he was gone.

No. The demon Meg was not the first he had partnered with, although he did hope her to be the last. Privately, Castiel recoiled at the dark reminder, needing desperately to get his mind on other things.

Working with demons, ignoring his friends, declaring war on Heaven? He truly was deplorable.

This would not end well at all. But it would end.

Everything did.

got caught for what I did, laid to rest all my confessions
now I'm back again and versed in so much worse
I'm sitting on a throne while they're buried in the dirt
yes, I've been told I redefine a sin

OCTOBER 2010

They were both designed for the battlefield, for war, but there were times when Meg couldn't help but wonder if maybe they were meant to tear down the world together.

Over the next several weeks, their interactions were kept sparse and mostly over the phone to avoid actual proximity, but those rare moments afforded insight into something she couldn't quite put a name to. Maybe she didn't want to put a name to it. To do so at all would acknowledge that there was something inconceivable to be seen there.

In the back of her mind, she imagined Lucifer proud. By all appearances, she was carrying on with her mission. Leading Castiel astray, paving the path of the unrighteous for him. But as often as the demon speculated over whether they were two unlikely peas in a pod, she wondered if maybe Castiel wasn't the one leading her astray all along.

Meg was true to her word. Though they seldom conversed, she at least was consistent. She handed over monsters, and Castiel relayed their whereabouts to Crowley. He never actually told the King of Hell where he was gleaning this information from of course, and it didn't seem to matter. Results were results, and he was an angel, after all. No one ever suspected his motives.

Then came the day when Castiel was expected to fulfill his end of the arrangement with Meg. She hadn't even used the phone. Out of nowhere, the demon's voice was in his head, praying for him to come. Castiel didn't even consider the utter blasphemy of it all because he was too distracted by that smoky drawl, tinged with adrenaline, demanding he get his ass to where she was and start raining down fire.

As if he was her personal hammer.

Annoyed and vexed about the whole ordeal, the angel had nonetheless ported himself to her side, finding her already in a losing battle. While the objectionable summons did get him out of having to answer more of Sam and Dean's questions, or having to wonder over where Balthazar had disappeared to with the stolen weapons, Castiel was still inundated with errant reminders of just how perverse her presumption was that he would come for her.

The angel arrived with a burst of wind and power, hitting the earth hard enough so that it shook. He grabbed the first enemy around the neck and tore it off of her, hurling it aside as an afterthought before his blade came slamming up into the next one's sternum. Its fiery scream rang loud as it died.

Castiel grappled with another, its attacks doing nothing to stun or thwart him. At the edge of his vision, he saw Meg get to her feet, immediately tearing into the first thing she could get her hands on.

She was fast. More agile than any other demon he'd seen in a fight. She fought as though caged all her life, like there was something trying to get out of her. It was almost mesmerizing to watch.

While Meg was a soldier bred from chaos and fire, eons of training and discipline kept Castiel far more controlled. She took more delight in drawing out the kill, whereas the angel focused on getting it done quickly and cleanly. Still… there was a certain undercurrent of brutality there that was as riveting as it was ominous. Each blade strike, each violent outpouring of grace by bare hand, became more vicious than the last. Meg fed off that aggression, reveling in it as the sight only stimulated her own.

She was deadly while alone, but together they were an unstoppable force that afforded their prey no chance of escape.

For the first time, demon and angel fought back to back instead of blade to blade. Their coaction was too perfect, their rivalry too compatible. It was disconcerting to Castiel how their strategies so easily aligned, like stars and planets ought to and ought not. They slashed and tore at enemies like they were made for it. Designed to work as a single force instead of on opposing sides. He attacked from above, she from below. They were death and judgment forged as one, too focused on the instinct that brought them together to consider how contrary it was.

Light and darkness. Serenity and rage. Order and chaos.

United, they were an angular shape of powers, completely complementary and characterized by sharp turns and alternating directions as with magnetism. Castiel went right, Meg went left.

Together, angel and demon met in the center.

As they executed their last enemy in tandem, they whirled on each other, weapons primed in the heat of battle. Meg tempered almost right away, but Castiel took longer. His control balanced on a tenuous line, having taken a moment to savor the aberrant hunger and raw satisfaction in the kill. She would have been morbidly impressed if it weren't for the fact that the hand not holding his blade against her heart was hovering over her forehead. Power thrummed at the point of contact, and though he was otherwise inexpressive, the light of his grace burned through him still, mirrored in eyes that were devoid of mercy.

Meg didn't shrink away, although she did relax a great deal when that fierceness he displayed abruptly abated. Castiel lowered his hand and weapon, but that cold exterior remained. Turning, he offered the smoldering corpses at their feet a cursory onceover, refusing to meet the eyes of the demon still alive.

Trying to appear unaffected by her brush with death, Meg let out a low whistle and glanced around too. "Goddamn, angel. Can't say I don't enjoy having you perched on my shoulder."

Castiel rounded on her, virulent and pissy. "Don't pray to me. Use your phone if you require help."

The demon bristled at his tone. "Cut the attitude, Bitchtiel. You might recall my hands were a little too busy tearing apart my fellow demons to shoot you a text."

"My attitude, as you call it, is unassailable given the circumstances. So keep your complaints to yourself, they mean nothing to me."

Meg had a witty retort ready on her tongue, but in the time it took her to blink, he was gone. Who the hell stuck his halo in a blender? The demon ground her teeth, eyes rolling heavenward and hoping he could hear her.

"Fucking angels," she muttered.

put your hand out to me
I'm the one who's going to make you burn
I'm going to take you down, down, down
like evil, I get under your skin
just a bomb that's ready to blow

Forming an alliance had done nothing to lessen the animosity they harbored towards each other, at least not at first. They were architects of death, designed and bred by higher powers than themselves to kill the other, and that instinct was deeply ingrained. Somehow though, their paths had ended up entangled. Somehow, they laid down their weapons against each other in favor of common interest. Neither realized at first just how much vice and triumph lived and died together. Still, even in spite of that truce, angel and demon strove as enemies should. Among the lines and building tactics—staying on their guard, should the other inevitably betray them.

It was the wise thing to do, but more often than he would ever admit it, including under torture, Castiel found his thoughts drifting to the woman with the stygian eyes. She was a burning eddy of determination, he would grant her that. As much as they fought each other, there were undertones of respect and admiration he couldn't shed. Those feelings constantly betrayed him, conflicted him.

Still, there were times when he wanted to go right, and the demon was trying to go left. Eventually, if he was set on her help, Castiel would simply tow her along with him using the influence of his power, at least until her own flared up and she was clawing at his grace and cursing him out. Demons, as it happened, didn't appreciate being hauled around like toys. Castiel ignored it most of the time, but there was no stopping the almost smug satisfaction he felt at being the one to rankle her for once.

For Meg, the sentiment was similar. The angel was fucking fascinating, in every way that mattered and didn't. Sometimes though, she just wanted to dig her nails in and tear. Punish him for being what he was, dirty him up a little until he was more like her.

One day, she would despair at the thought of him becoming what she was, but that day was far away. Intangible to her now and nestled deep in a future that would tear them apart in ways unspeakable.

Still, even now… she looked at him and saw things she shouldn't. Entertained thoughts she had no business with—thoughts so beyond even the outline of her original mission it was absurd. She was a creature of darkness, ruled by discord, and a thing to be feared. Cold were her emotions, what little there were of them, driven by an abysmal ruthlessness that constantly ached to spring forth and be released. But… perhaps there were other things inside her too, longing to break free from that frigid cage.

I don't know who I am
but now I know who I'm not
I'm just a curious speck that got caught up in orbit
like a magnet it beckoned my metals toward it

Castiel stared balefully at her from inside the trap. "What is this?" he demanded. His voice was strident even while pitched so low, and it nearly shook the building's supports.

Meg stood at a safe distance from outside the ring of holy fire that bound him, flanked by two other demons. "Take a guess, sweetness." At his angry silence, she elaborated. "Trading an angel for my freedom? All the cool kids are doing it. Quite the notorious little dickens, too. Life sure is kismet." The force of her grin was enough to dimple her cheeks, and beside her the others laughed.

Sinister fury boiled within him. Those demons were undoubtedly Crowley's—foot soldiers who knew nothing of his deal with the King of Hell, or that Crowley would kill and eviscerate them for the infraction. But Castiel cared little that he was going to survive this. He cared only that he was going to wipe that abomination with the pretty smile off the face of the earth once he got out of this trap.

Just as he was planning in detail exactly how he was going to rid himself of her permanently, the two unfamiliar demons arched forwards with nearly identical screams. Wooden stakes protruded from their chests, the wound sites festering with smoke. They appeared unable to move, despite their centralized thrashing. Meg circled around in front of them, eyes slicked black, her smile gone in favor of the piercing cold stare she wore now.

"Maybe it's that I've always preferred working alone," she mused. Her voice was clipped and rougher around the edges than normal, entire demeanor shifting completely. "Maybe it's because I just don't play well with others." Meg shook her head, darkly contemplative and unsympathetic towards their bellows of pain. "But demons can be really fucking stupid." Her gaze slid to Castiel as the rolling flames performed haunting shadowplay over their faces. It swallowed all other light in their eyes, leaving the balance between them still too opaque. She read the stern traces of confusion in his expression, blue eyes gone almost black as they transferred from her to the trapped demons. "Palo Santos," Meg enlightened him, and immediate recognition showed on his face.

Wooden, hybridized versions of salt and holy water. When used, it could pin a demon to a single spot, immobilizing them long enough to perform an exorcism when there was no time for devil's traps. The fact that she'd been wearing gloves hadn't even occurred to him at the time.

"A double cross?" Castiel surmised, realizing now.

"Trap was never for you, treetopper," confirmed the demon he knew, apparently satisfied with the way his ferocious expression began to wane. "So how about you toss me that pretty blade of yours, so I can finish off these sorry sacks of meat?"

"Let me out, and I will deal with them myself."

"So bossy. Don't you trust me with your weapon?" Meg smiled in the face of his lingering glower, her lips curling just barely as she approached the circle of flames. His stony silence was answer enough, but served only to further her amusement. It was thrilling, being superior to him for once—having him at her mercy again like this. The demon regarded the flames at their feet, her gaze slowly crawling up to find his.

A thousand unspoken words swam in the surface of that iniquitous stare, and the angel knew that if he tried to decode them, he doubtlessly would not like what he found there. Worse, and perhaps most disconcerting of all… he might just enjoy it.

"Bring back memories, Castiel?" Meg regarded him rakishly from beneath smoky lashes. Her voice was sultry and low, honeyed to the point where his distrust flared back to the forefront of his charged thoughts. But then she snapped her fingers, and the flames extinguished.

Wasting no time, he ported himself behind her and immediately did away with the two demons, their vocalized threats dying away to screams and then silence, just as swiftly as the fire had. When Meg turned around, Castiel was directly in front of her, a looming threat.

"Never use me like that again."

To her credit, Meg didn't recoil from him. She stared evenly back, unmoving and unafraid. "You're not exactly a liar by trade, Columbo. I wasn't sure I could count on you to play along." She took a step closer, close enough so that her nose almost brushed his chin. "And I'll do with you as I please."

She could see how much he fought the instinct to shy back from her proximity, righteous and cross all at once sas only Castiel could ever quite manage. To do so would be a sign of weakness on his part, of backing down. Figuring she was already ahead in numbers because of the fire trap, Meg let him off the hook and casually eased back, glancing over his shoulder at the smoking husks he'd left of the demons.

"Our beloved King might realize I have an angel in my pocket if he sees his little pissants looking all smote and bothered like this. Pissants he sent after me?"

"Then dispose of the bodies," Castiel retorted flatly.

Meg lifted an eyebrow at the dismissal. "You made the mess, handsome. You deal with it. I offered to kill them myself, remember?"

Castiel looked away with a churlish sigh. "Faboan vithmong," he muttered, almost to himself. The delivery was more cranky now than murderous, but there was still real venom to the Enochian slur.

Meg just smirked broadly at him, never one to back down from a pissing match. "Sui iustus rhetor."

Now he looked like he wanted to kill her again.

It was a whole new level of ingenuity to their derisive feuds. The angel did that often—slipped into his mother tongue when particularly vexed about something. Especially when directing his frustrations at her. Nevertheless, Castiel was just as fluent in Latin as he was any other language, which meant he always knew exactly what she was saying about him. Contrarily, Meg rarely understood whatever the hell he was saying about her, other than it wasn't good. This meant that she could find amusement in his need to resort to what he was comfortable with, all the while remaining oblivious herself. The old fogey was completely alien to this world, she sometimes forgot.

In moments such as these, Castiel was left staring after her with even more contempt and frustration than when they'd started. It didn't help that Meg didn't really speak English to start with. She spoke references, sarcasm, and anger. At least when she spoke another language, he could understand what she was saying. Even if he didn't like it.

Just another game she could beat him at, as far as she was concerned. Without another word, Meg trotted off, leaving him to deal with the aftermath of her deception. She didn't know that Castiel needed the evidence gone just as much as she did. If he didn't do away with the bodies, she'd be dealing with a trail that Crowley could follow straight to her. But, somehow inherently, she trusted Castiel to do her bidding. Expected him to, as though it were commonplace.

The angel tried to puzzle out whether he would have, even without any benefit to himself. What disturbed him most was that… he didn't know.

I can see right through all your empty lies
trembling, crawling across my skin
feel your cold dead eyes, stealing the life of mine
easy to find what's wrong, harder to find what's right

He hadn't killed her in that ring of fire.

He could have killed her. Should have killed her. What had stopped him?

Almost a year later, and Castiel still had no answer.

They were two paths, diverging from a given course. Different in every way that mattered, yet so similar it was unsettling. He was unproven at reading cues and facial nuances, but sometimes he could swear the demon looked just as worn and disillusioned as he felt most days. Sometimes her smile was brittle and her smoke flickered. Had he killed her then, he might never have seen it.

A foreign, inborn feeling buried deep beneath the animosity he felt towards her almost ached to reach out to her. The experience was often fleeting, but impossible to ignore. Castiel resisted that urge, but it drove him mad all the same.

Things were generally hot and cold with the demon. With… Meg.

Proximity to her of any kind was confusing, no matter his mood. Whether they were one smart retort or sanctimonious accusation away from killing each other, or neck deep in battle together, there was always that underlying and strange energy. Meg figured it was the angel and demon thing, side effects of being mortal enemies, and all that noise. Castiel would blame her demonic nature, always setting him on edge—whether innately or deliberately.

Both of them were right, of course. But both of them were also very wrong.

our backs against the wall
we're surrounded and afraid
our lives now in the hands
of the soldiers taking aim

The demon liked to sing.

It hadn't taken him terribly long to notice the habit, peculiar as it was. Particularly now, as he appeared before her. "Hello, Meg."

It was strange to call her that. It wasn't really her name.

"If you go chasing rabbits, and you know you're going to fall…" She glanced over her shoulder at him, wearing a sly smirk that was too confident and too bored all at once, then trilled off some more notes. "Tell 'em a hookah-smoking caterpillar has given you the call."

Castiel's stare was blank and disapproving. "I thought I told you not to pray to me."

"Did you?" she wondered innocently.

He sighed, too weary to argue. "What do you want?"

Meg held up a slip of paper, wiggling it at him. When Castiel reached for it, she snatched it back away, earning a look. "Where have you been? Haven't heard from you in almost a week. Been lonely."

"Fighting a war," he retorted.

Over a dozen of his siblings had died in the last few days, and Castiel was almost completely void of any morale. He was tired, browbeaten, and the demon was already irritating him.

Meg ignored his tone, flicking the paper at him. "Might have a lead on that shifter you were looking for. Have fun, save me some entrails."

Castiel caught the note, scanning over it momentarily before his surly expression and upwards glance signified that he was about to disappear again.

"Hey, boy wonder. Don't I get a thank you?"

The angel looked put out by her keeping him, his expression suggesting she not extend this meeting any further than it already had gone. "You presume you're entitled to one?" It wasn't quite an insult, but at her expectant glare, Castiel narrowed his eyes. "When have you ever expressed gratitude towards me?"

"Would you like me to, Clarence?"

Even to him, the words were positively dripping with invitation. The angel fixed her with a hooded look, deigning to withhold any reply. The appropriate move it seemed, because Meg only chuckled and shook her head at him.

"Bye then, feathers." She angled her sharp chin in farewell. "Just remember what the dormouse said."

His forehead wrinkled at that. "What—" he started to say, but in a reverse riposte, she was suddenly the one gone from sight. Disgruntled, Castiel felt a sensation not unlike having a rug tugged out from under him. "Demons," he growled.

Still… in spite of how she endlessly frustrated him, some secret corner of the angel's mind could admit and appreciate that the abomination he loathed did possess a lovely singing voice.

say goodbye
as we dance with the devil tonight
don't you dare look at him in the eye
I won't last long, in this world so wrong

The gray stone walls, reminiscent of a dungeon, were ridden with displays of torture devices old and new, all in varying conditions. The environment was dank and dark, positively dripping with a foulness both literal and metaphysical. Screams carried dimly from somewhere deep in the prison, only adding to that rotten atmosphere.

Humming to himself behind his desk, Crowley paged through his very thick binder of soul deals, curious on whose he'd be collecting on in the near future. He reached for his glass of whiskey, but started slightly when he heard the sound of wind against fabric. As he looked up, he saw that he was no longer alone in his makeshift office. Standing in front of him and looking irritated and sour was the angel in the trenchcoat, and Crowley thought it was about bloody time.

The demon raised his eyebrows and smiled pleasantly, not letting his surprise show. "Ah. Cas, my favorite halo. Was wondering when you'd come." He sat up properly, awaiting the conniption sure to follow.

"What do you mean, when I'd come?" Castiel said gruffly. "There's a war in Heaven. A war you had me start. I've been busy."

"Don't let's play the victim, darling," Crowley said, standing up now and taking his drink with him. He sniffed appreciatively at the rim of the glass, swirling the contents in a manner very languid, and studied the angel thoughtfully. Castiel appeared broken before him; exhausted, and plain foul-tempered. "You desperately need to get laid."

"What do you want, Crowley?" asked Castiel with dark impatience. "I don't have all day."

Crowley hesitated, a sudden thought occurring to him. He looked at his companion closely, gauging for a reaction. "Do you not know how long it's been, since last we spoke in person?" Castiel's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, and Crowley sighed. "Five months," he said, and watched as sheer confusion, then realization, and then something like dread flashed across the angel's face. All within the spans of a few seconds. Castiel then tried to hide it, tried to go back to being stone-faced. Crowley just rolled his eyes and sighed again. "Yes, go ahead and pretend you knew that. I like the constipated look you get when you act like you know what you're doing. It's a good thing you're so entertaining, my feathered friend."

Castiel said nothing, just clenched his jaw a bit and brooded. Crowley looked him up and down, reading the signs of fatigue and despondency which Castiel was trying so hard to conceal.

"War must be taking quite the toll, then," said the demon, as though remarking on the color paint of the room.

The angel was perturbed and troubled in equal parts. "Time works differently in Heaven. It's not constant or stable like it is on earth." It wasn't quite a falsehood—he had lost track of time. But he was also more focused on the Winchesters, on his… other alliance, than he was towards his partnership with the King of Hell. "To me, only a few weeks have passed. It feels much longer."

"Sad story," Crowley retorted sarcastically. "Where did I put my tiny violin?" At the confused expression on the angel's face, he rolled his eyes. "Never mind. Point is, you need to hurry it up, bucko."

Temper flaring at the unfriendly dig, Castiel bristled. "I need to 'hurry it up'?" His expression was filled with sudden, righteously indignant fury. "As I recall, this entire war is contingent upon you finding Purgatory."

Crowley adopted a humble pause, although his lips pursed slightly in hooded annoyance. "Well, yes. I suppose there's that."

"How close are you?" Castiel asked, his aggravation not at all abating. "I can't sustain the same pace for long—Raphael is too powerful, and too many of us are dying."

"Keep your pants on, would you?" Crowley leveled the angel with a slightly challenging stare. "I'm going as fast as I can. Would be a hell of a lot faster if you'd pick up the slack on those monsters."

"I give you the locations as I receive them," Castiel said firmly. "I don't have time for both hunting and the war. That is why you have the Campbells."

"Receive them, eh? And just who do you have in your corner on messenger detail?"

Castiel's eyes were narrowed, his features rigid. "Myself, if it's any of your concern. Other times, it's a loyal angel."

Crowley raised a single dark eyebrow. "Your little God Squad isn't asking questions as to why you're suddenly interested in monsters?"

"They're angels," Castiel muttered, looking away. He was careless of lying to Crowley, but there was a certain bitter aftertaste as he said the words anyway. "They don't ask questions."

The demon tutted, amused and apparently satisfied, but Castiel remained grim.

"What would it take? To expedite your pace?"

Crowley let out an annoyed huff of air. "You can't just streamline these things, mate. More importantly," he went on, voice dropping low, "next time I call you, try not to drag your feet. We're business partners, and I dislike it when I can't get a hold of you."

Castiel's eyes flicked up to Crowley's, locking. His face was full of baleful contempt. "How unfortunate you feel that way," he all but snapped. "Now give me what's mine."

"Was that sarcasm?" Crowley asked, pleasantly surprised and verging on delighted. He grinned widely, making his eyes crinkle up. He walked around the desk, coming to stand in front of his churlish cohort. "My, my. They grow up so fast."

Castiel was waiting, riled and impatient, and Crowley was annoyed that no one seemed to appreciate his freewheeling sense of humor and comedic timing. He rolled his eyes, supposing he did have to make good on his agreement and that his fun was over. Sighing dramatically, he lifted a hand.

"A couple thousand more souls, my heavenly creampuff."

Crowley touched two fingers to the angel's chest, and a surge of energy siphoned directly into Castiel's grace. He wired his eyes shut against the staggering weight, tensing up. It wasn't as overwhelmingly crushing as when the demon had bestowed the fifty thousand upon him, but it still took a toll. The burst of light that had risen up now gradually faded, and Castiel worked to shake off the disorienting after effects.

"These won't last long."

"I'm aware," he muttered. "It barely lasted long enough the first time."

"Your little dimestore highs will have to do for now. I won't deplete my merchandise much more than I already have. Besides, these little buggers are human. Once we get our hands on those monster souls?" Crowley clucked his tongue, becoming delighted at the thought. "Fuck me sideways, that'll be the trip that never stops giving."

Castiel met his eyes gloomily, but there was an air of satisfaction there too. He looked charged again, abuzz with energy.

"You know, Castiel… we're not so different, you and I."

The angel appeared offended by the very suggestion. "We couldn't be further from similarity."

Crowley merely offered him a genial smile. "Don't be so certain."

Castiel's expression darkened, becoming grave and almost wrathful. Then, just as he'd appeared without warning—he was gone.

The demon sighed gustily, putting his hands into his pockets. "Kids these days. So rude."

Despite the perpetual surliness, it was rather thrilling to have an angel all but under his thumb. Under his thumb, clueless, and on his way to strong-arming the King of Hell some major soul power. Honestly, Crowley couldn't have planned it more perfectly. The Winchesters were somewhat out of the picture at the moment, at least in concerns to Castiel, and therefore less of a distraction while still a motivating factor.

Thursday's angel: always looking to save the boys.

It was trite and somewhat maudlin, wasn't it? Almost sweet, in a sickening, annoying way. They wouldn't be a problem for months to come. The war in the attic also kept Castiel occupied and less intrusive.

Seamless.

Then there were the Campbells, and Sam. Oh, Sam. Hunting, and hunting well. Getting in some trouble here and there, but making a killing. Quite literally.

Crowley strolled out of his office, feeling good about how things were shaping up so nicely, yet clueless himself on the latest distraction in Castiel's life. A distraction that had somehow cropped up unexpectedly, but with all the gale force of some catastrophic tempest.

Either way, Castiel had so much further to fall.

come with me now
I'm going to take you down
come with me now
I'll show you how

"How did you find me?"

Well, what a nasty greeting. The angel's immediate demand upon her arrival was scathing, to the point where it was just shy of a physical attack. Here she was playing Santa, and he was biting the hand bearing gifts.

"I followed the trail of stuffy self-righteousness," Meg answered sunnily, before that cheeriness abruptly dropped. "You're distracted and sloppy, Castiel. Any two-bit hack could have found you right now."

The angel latched onto one word she'd used in particular, his expression foul. "Perhaps I'm distracted because I am fighting a war, which everyone seems to forget."

I've been on red alert about Sam, and you come for some stupid horn?! Dean's voice rang in his head, tarnished with accusation and contempt. Castiel fumed even as he was inwardly wracked with turmoil, and he closed in on the nearest fixture he could unload his frustrations on.

"No matter what I do, it's never enough. I could obliterate any one of you with a thought if it suited me, but do I? I can't fathom why I haven't."

You asked me to be here, and I came. I—

I've been asking you to be here for days, you dick!

He had nothing to offer about Sam. God help him, he was just as in the dark as everyone else, despite that he had personally risen the boy himself. Something had gone horribly, horribly wrong, but didn't anyone see that he was trying to fix what had been done? That he was fighting without cease to keep them all not only safe, but alive?! The world as they knew it was in peril, but all they could see was that he wasn't there to fix every scrape and stubbed toe. He was an errand boy, a convenient outlet for them to beat against because he was Castiel and Castiel always did what he was told.

The hypocrisy of it all escaping him, he broke away from his timely victim to rave almost to himself, a string of Enochian flying past his lips in frustration. Around demon and angel, the trees swayed under a sudden wind, the sky clouding over with an angry storm cell.

Enough of this shit.

Meg reached out and shoved against his shoulder, hard. "Hey! Focus."

Castiel rounded on her, livid and unremitting. "Do not touch me, demon. I am more powerful, more impressive, than any of you specks could ever comprehend, yet what respect am I ever shown? I make it my mission to protect all of you, yet every effort I make is thrown back in my face!" A crack of thunder sounded somewhere in the distance. "Why do I keep coming back? Why do I continue, time and again, to answer any of your calls? You don't appreciate it, and you certainly don't deserve it!"

Meg only stared at him, her reaction somehow unremarkable in the face of his cataclysmic outburst. "The fuck crawled up your ass?"

Castiel's impassioned, breathless expression gave way to indignation. "Excuse me?"

"You're even pissier than usual. What the hell gives?"

"My disposition is none of your concern."

Dark eyes were already pulling him apart. "Maybe not, but it becomes my problem when you're too busy having a tantrum to focus on the job at hand." He was more charged than she'd ever seen him, reminding her of a loose nuke—that, and he was pissing her off. "Also? I don't know who you think you're talking to, but I'm not one of your little Whinechesters. So watch your goddamn tone with me."

Despite the belittling remarks, some of Castiel's fire ebbed as he grudgingly recognized that she was not the reason for his anger. For the moment, at least. That anger was… misdirected. In lieu of this, the angel felt an almost sheepish sense of regret. He let out a riled breath, all the same. "You couldn't possibly understand the travails I'm faced with, demon."

The reminder was needless, self-serving, and Meg shook her head at him. "Probably not. And I couldn't give a shit one way or the other. Eat a fucking Snickers or something and pull it together."

Her hand slapped against his chest, startling him, and Castiel stared down and caught the note with the next batch of locations. When he looked up, she was gone. Seeming a little disturbed by what had just happened, his face nonetheless remained stoic.

What happened to you, Cas? You used to be human, or at least like one.

I'm at war.

The humans had a saying. Playing with fire. Was that what he was doing? Playing with fire and about to be burned? The creeping suspicions he tried to ignore about himself were forever on the edge of his mind, taunting him and shaking his confidence. Perhaps the most difficult thing in all of this was waging the war alone and having no true confidante or supporter. Rachel was the closest thing he possessed to one, he supposed, but she didn't understand him or even fully grasp the reason for the war—she was merely following his leadership, not fighting tooth and nail for free will and choice like he was.

Castiel's thoughts inevitably wandered back to the demon, as they were wont to do these days. Some deep, dark corner of him mind relented that… perhaps Meg was right. Maybe they all were. He didn't feel like himself anymore, which he supposed was a sign of some sort.

More, those thoughts wondered if Meg herself wasn't becoming that anchor he so desperately needed.

there's a storm ahead, I see it all around me
I feel it in the air, shake the ground beneath my feet
and I know it's all a part of me
did you make a plan just to watch it crumble?

NOVEMBER 2010

He bore injuries from a previous battle already when they were both ambushed. Hound messengers sent for her, Meg thought fiercely. Somehow, Crowley had found her.

She registered the sight of grotesque fur and rotting limbs, tracking the large beasts with her eyes. Hellish mutations, just like her. As she fought one, Castiel was already intercepting another that pounced for her, using the thing's momentum against it. He drove the hellhound into the concrete with a thundering slam of mutilated flesh, narrowly avoiding the snapping jaws. Gripping it around the jaw, he snapped its neck, renting bones from ligaments. Two more he finished off like this, another with a blinding flash of grace.

Meg sliced at the air with her weapon as a set of jaws clamped down on her shoulder. She twisted away, kicking out with her legs against razor-edged teeth. The smell of ozone and rainfall permeated her senses then, a blur of tan the only thing she saw before the hound gave a startled yelp and was ripped away.

Light poured from the angel's hands unchecked, the reason behind the overpowering sensation of him that nearly smothered her. Determination had painted a stark mask on his face, despite that he was still hurting from whatever angelic ass-kicking he'd taken hours before.

It went off like a nuclear explosion across the celestial battlefields, leaving utter death and destruction in its wake. Joshua's Horn sounded across the ethereal plane and rendered all the angels in close proximity to dust as their cells scattered and blew apart. The angel, Balam, was one of Raphael's most loyal and stood high and proud as he watched the enemy fall around him. The heavenly weapon glinted treacherously in his hand.

A second legion of Castiel's forces had been close to Balam, but not close enough to be killed instantly by the sounding of the horn. Instead, the eleven angels were viciously blasted away in all directions at its use. Castiel was among these angels.

As paradise was ripped asunder, he felt himself tearing backwards through varying heavens from the force of the devastating attack, even as his vessel exploded with pain. Every atom shivered and buckled, threatening to dissolve and give out completely. He collided with something that cracked and then shattered—falling face down into the grass.

Castiel laid there trembling, every part of him hurting profusely as his grace began the daunting task of repairing his vessel. The angelic weapon had done vast damage, and he felt it. He tasted blood and his ears ran with it, making sounds muffled and strange to him. Balam could not be allowed to keep that weapon, or the war would be over for the worse.

Castiel dragged himself up, heaving with effort as he stood unevenly. He took a staggering step forward, testing out his own durability. Unfortunately, he'd have to wait for his body to restore itself before he could attempt another attack. Sinking back to his knees, he took a moment to regain his breath.

Shortly after, Castiel ported himself to his favored heaven for respite, listening to the voices of his kin as they remapped strategies and considered plans of retaliation. He noted with considerable grief that those voices were not as numerous as they had been before, as Heaven had lost a great many stars that day.

Not much later, when he was better revitalized, he'd descend to earth for another meeting with the demon he better preferred—ever reminded how desperately he needed to win this war.

The harsh raking of claws against the concrete alerted her barely in time. Meg tore her knife from a canine throat, bounding around a second before casting out her power to send its insides gnarling. It howled in pain but pressed on, snapping its jaws at her heels. She caught sight of Castiel fighting another, although he looked haggard despite his upper hand. There was a strangled yelp, and then the sound of a large body hitting the earth as the angel tore his blade from its skull.

Meg felt a set of claws carve up her side and cried out through gritted teeth, stabbing her knife up through the underside of a matted jaw. She ignored the assault of pain jackknifing across her skin and shoved the dead bulk away, seeing that her partner in crime was sporting some bloody souvenirs now too. He'd just gotten his arms around a meaty neck before he was taken down by more of the pack.

The angel heard Meg shout his name, out of reach, and he buckled under the crushing weight as one of the hounds leapt up onto his back, digging in claws and tearing at pinion and bone. Unable to help it, a piercing blast of sheer noise ripped from his throat.

The celestial voice caused the entire building to quake. A light fixture high above their heads was shaken loose, plummeting with a thunderous crash next to where they stood. Meg heard the stomach-churning sound of bones breaking, a rare feeling of empathy slamming through her at the subsequent sound of the angel's agonized yell. She tried to cut herself a bloody path to him, but became quickly surrounded.

"Shit."

The demon's teeth were bared in a grimace as she started stabbing her way through, militant and fierce. Ebony blood coated leather and denim, matching the inky surface of her eyes, and rotten breath hung hot at her heels as she dodged and struck at their mangled faces. Meters away, Castiel was throwing a hound off his back before he was suddenly right in front of her, hauling the demon tight against his chest without warning. A rush of wind surrounded them amid the thundering howls, and then nothing.

He did nothing.

Just stood there, keeping her trapped.

"What the hell are you doing?" she demanded, beginning to struggle. There were only a few stragglers left of the pack, but they'd be torn to shreds in seconds at this rate. "Don't just st—!"

Castiel turned blue eyes on her sharply. "Be quiet!" he said, clamping a hand over her mouth.

Startled and furious, Meg was sure he'd lost his goddamn mind, but then she realized… the hounds weren't attacking. She could still hear them, baying loud a mere arm's reach away. It wasn't long after that when she noticed the wings. Iridescent, furling shapes, massive in size. Barely visible and a mere suggestion of solid mass. And they were stunning.

Meg became instantly spellbound.

"It's how we remain invisible if we don't wish to be seen," said the angel in a hushed voice. He removed his hand, but kept her close enough so that their noses nearly brushed when he looked at her again. "I needed a moment," he explained through a grimace, taking a breath. As though in evidence to this, Meg noticed the mixture of blood and light seeping through the awful wounds he'd acquired. "To regain strength."

"For what?" she asked, unable to keep the breathless wonder from her voice.

Castiel's eyes abruptly radiated with the divine. "Shut your eyes," he commanded. "Now."

Understanding, Meg threw an arm up to shield her face as he broke away from her. The loud, ear-piercing ring that followed was deafening, and the demon gritted her teeth against the holy assault on her ears.

Ignoring the pain that tore through him still, Castiel cast out his grace in a wide arc. Light immediately flooded the darkness of the warehouse like a beacon, and a blast of pure heavenly power slammed against and ripped into the remaining hounds. Their suffering cries cropped up in a gruesome chorus as the scent of burning flesh melded with the other terrible smells in the air.

When the sounds and presence of power faded into a dull, quiet hiss, Meg slowly opened her eyes. She blinked against the remaining light, straightening a bit and lowering her guard. All the windows had been blown out. Another light fixture hung only from a single chain above their heads.

Stark, stretching shadows were spread wide, blotting out some of that light. The silhouettes shimmered, smoldering embers caught within their nebulous depths. In the center of it all, Castiel was surrounded by a graveyard of burnt out husks. There was blood spilled all down his back and over his face, but still he shone like the center of some roaring star.

Meg stared in shock as that light gradually dimmed, wishing it wouldn't or that those powerful appendages wouldn't retreat so that she could look at them a little longer. The demon was smoking, she realized then, and saw that the ends of her hair were a little singed.

"Holy shit," she muttered, kicking at a lifeless invisible mass.

"We should go."

Meg blinked and suddenly they were in her motel room. She had no idea how he'd even known this was where she was staying, and doubted he'd ever tell her. In any case, it was a welcome sight compared to the dog's breakfast they'd left behind at the warehouse. She angled her head to regard Castiel, who was swaying a little where he stood.

He coughed hard into his hand, almost curling in on himself, and the awful sound rattled wetly in his throat. There was blood left behind when he drew back, and Meg wondered if she should worry. A moment later, he cleaned all visual evidence of the fight away with his power, but it was obvious he was still in pain.

Adrenaline still pumping after the fight, she lifted her nose at him, assuring that they fell into their usual repartee. "You know, if you wanted a hug, all you had to do was ask." Maybe she needed to get that image of him looking so broken out of her head, too.

Castiel looked at her as though she'd grown a second head. The suggestion appeared to flummox him. "I wasn't hugging you. I was—" He broke off at the sight of that infernal smirk, withholding a sigh. "You're teasing," he muttered, realizing.

Meg simpered, shaking her head at him. For a hardened soldier, he sure was too fucking cute sometimes. Castiel didn't seem to appreciate her amusement. His loss.

There was something else in his eyes, though.

"Are you… hurt?"

Meg lifted an eyebrow at the surprising show of concern. "I've had worse." Almost primly, she brushed at the sleeves of her jacket, turning to inspect her reflection in the nearby mirror. She dug a handkerchief out of the bedside table and began dabbing at the sluggish flow of blood above her temple. "You, on the other hand, look like hell warmed over."

Drained and jaded, the angel glanced down at his previously blood-ridden form. "I was your shield. Of course I look terrible."

His gruff tone and narrowed eyes made her chuckle. The sound of it was dusky and almost appealing, stretching across the space between them to caress his bowed shoulders and dance along his spine. Castiel withheld a shudder, moving to lean dependently against the fridge for support.

Meg lowered the handkerchief and considered him thoughtfully through the reflection in the mirror. "You still in hulk mode?"

"I don't know what that means."

The demon's smile was lazy in reply. "I mean your shitty ass mood from the other day."

Castiel considered all he had seen today, growing somber. "I'm at war and my family is dying," he said quietly, almost to himself. "My friends are at risk. What mood would you suggest I undertake?"

"One with a sense of humor would be nice," she said mildly, regarding him with a lighter smile than he was used to from her. "Still… it's good to see you still know how to party," she said of the earlier fight. Meg turned from the mirror, tossing the handkerchief away and noting her company's hitched movements and hunched over form, already regretting her practicality. "Prick's gonna notice an angel flash fried his pets."

"I'll take care of it."

The angel looked like he was about to take off.

"Sit down, would you? Take a breather. You're no good to me crash landed on some mountain in Burma." Just seeing him like that was making her cringe, which was rude if you asked her. It wasn't her fault the halo hadn't been paying attention. Or that he'd just come from a fight in the first place. Stupid angels—always thinking they were so indestructible. Meg tossed her duffel full of weapons onto the bed and beckoned him over before he could slump into one of the dining chairs. "I take that back. Come here."

Castiel was already eyeing her warily, like she might pull a nasty trick. "Why?"

Meg rolled her eyes as she sauntered over. "Turn around, you overgrown pigeon. Let me take a look at you." He only stared blankly at her, either not comprehending or silently refusing. Meg circumvented whichever it was, skirting around him with a huff. "Damn, you're impossible."

The angel tensed at the sudden touch of her hands running up his back and across his shoulders, feeling for damage. He shrank away from the contact as though burned. "What are y—"

"Hold still."

Castiel frowned at her wandering hands, bristling at her evident delight over his discomfort. Meg volleyed a few barbs his way, unable to help herself from needling him. If he had no broken bones before, the overwrought manner in which he was holding himself now would certainly do the trick. His back was ramrod straight, fingers curled into fists, and the muscles in his jaw were clenched tight as though he was enduring torture.

His vessel trembled slightly from exertion and he'd bled all over the carpet, but the little treetopper was more worried about what she was doing out of sight. How adorable.

Meg knew he wasn't used to being touched, but this was just ridiculous. Then again… he was badly hurt. She could feel the leftover evidence in the handsome framework beneath her hands, and wondered if she should try to press her luck. Or maybe the stuffy celestial would actually smite her on the spot without so much as a carpet stain.

"Can't you heal?"

"That last hellhound damaged my grace. It's… taking longer."

"This hurt?" Meg asked, pressing an experimental heel into the curve of his spine with her hand. She smiled to herself when he made a quiet sound, shoulders tensing. His response was a stiff headshake nevertheless, which she chuckled at. Stubborn little shit. Her fingers felt their way up to his neck, gently massaging the flesh there.

Castiel jolted slightly, a tremor working its way through him at the unexpected brush of skin. Put an end to this. Right now. Her fingers kneaded and pressed at the knots and injuries to his back and shoulders, testing out durability. And tolerability, he was sure. What on earth was she doing?

"Gotta take better care of yourself, hotwings."

Castiel wanted to protest such a ludicrous remark—he was fine—but the feel of deft fingers pressing into the aching, tired muscles of his abused body was too… distracting. He couldn't account for the strange fitfulness in his gut, the foreign way every nerve ending responded to her proximity in a manner that was somehow different than how an angel ought to react to a demon.

Castiel's eyelids fluttered slightly and his head dropped a bit in languid appreciation. The pressure brought discomfort of course, which was only to be expected after becoming a hellhound's chewtoy. But then again, it also felt sort of… nice.

Do not let your guard down with her, a voice in his head sternly warned. But instead of the straightforward refusal he'd originally intended for her somewhat patronizing suggestion, all that came out of his mouth was a low, involuntary hum.

"Relax."

Out of nowhere, he imagined what her hands might feel like on other parts of him. What her own skin might feel like to the touch. Abashed at such a reaction to her, Castiel began to withdraw. "I should go. I have duties in Heaven."

There was a gusty sigh that drifted over his shoulder from behind. "Really, Clarence?" Meg considered him forbearingly as she stepped back in front of him. His gaze lifted from his shoes to meet hers, inscrutable. "Lay your head down. On my shoulder. I'll take care of that last knot."

Her voice was clipped, clinical—betraying nothing to the way she was clearly goading him. Castiel stared at her. The demon stared back, lifting a single eyebrow sharply.

"No," he said. Almost defiantly.

Meg felt a mushrooming impatience. Despite this, she could only smile at him. "Suit yourself, Castiel."

"You keeping your distance does suit me."

Privately, Meg thrilled at the scathing remark, almost proud of him. "Well, cookie for you then. Saving my ass when you can't stand the sight of it? Almost noble of you." Even as she said it, Meg knew that wasn't true. The way he looked at her sometimes might have been oblivious to him, but the demon knew a sensual look when she saw one. A little insight that came with the horns. Still, his denial was charming.

"I didn't save you."

"Pretty sure you did," Meg said, grinning and wrinkling her nose up like something was cute. She considered his still battered appearance, jerking her chin at him inquiringly. "Better?"

His warring emotions whenever he was with her had continued to worsen over time, but right now they were especially smothering. Castiel couldn't understand it. "Fine," he muttered.

"What about the wings?"

…Did she mean his?

Even Castiel felt embarrassed with himself for the foolishness of that thought, once he had a moment to consider her question. What was it about being near her that rendered him completely brainless? Of course she meant his. Who else's would she have meant? "What about them?" he grumbled, thinking that the state of his actual, physical wings was an odd thing to ask after.

"Feathers out of whack? Bones busted up?"

Castiel shook his head and lied. "No."

Meg quirked an eyebrow at him, regarding him slyly from beneath sooty lashes. "Can I see them?"

He was instantly on guard, defenses slamming back into place. "What for?"

One of the most daunting things about working with this demon was that the angel could never be sure if she was legitimately wanting something, or just being sarcastic. Or manipulative. It was hard to tell with Meg. In general, she left him in an almost constant state of confusion, which was endlessly frustrating. More than likely she was very aware of that fact and glad for it.

"Because." Meg tapped a finger thoughtfully against his tie, eyeing him up in a way that was too impish for his piece of mind. "Maybe I want to rip them out?"

The remark threw him, but it wasn't long before arrogance swelled in the face of her gumption. She was so brazen. Like a cat, ready to take on a city of hounds. Meg barely caught the spark of inherent smugness in the angel's expression before it was gone.

Castiel's smirk, however, remained cool. "You would never be able to."

Something dark and sinister broke over her face at the words. A sharp eyebrow perked. "That sounds like a challenge, Castiel."

"I'm stronger than you."

Predictably, that riled her. "Pride goeth before the fucking fall and all that," Meg growled. Her jaw jutted out defiantly and she looked up into the angel's face, unable for the life of her to decode the look he was giving her. It seemed like it might have been dangerous—a warning. But there was something else there, too. A glint that was less superior and more… inquisitive.

Testing the waters?

Just as she was about to hurl another sarcastic remark at him, Castiel vanished from in front of her, porting himself away. Somewhere far enough from her presence, but not so far that he strained his damaged grace. He still had a warehouse to wipe clean.

Meanwhile, the demon smirked at the empty space where the angel had just been. Those waters were apparently too hot for little Ravenlocks. Well… that was just fine. Meg was patient.

Eventually, her little angel porridge would be just right.

She knew she was likely kidding herself, used to coveting what she couldn't have. But it was fun to pretend. Sometimes she forgot that she was not a woman at all. Not really. She was an inferno, a tempest. She was venom and fangs and claws. Castiel was lightning and starlight. He was an angel—light years away from the likes of a demon who was hell in high heels.

And yet they were both from a place far beyond eyes.

Maybe… just maybe… they weren't so different at all.

confused what I thought with something I felt
confuse what I feel with something that's real
I tried to sell my soul last night
funny, he wouldn't even take a bite

DECEMBER 2010

Inevitably, things began to fall apart.

It started when Meg's voice came across the phone, telling him that she'd captured the Winchesters and that she was coercing them into a joint hunt to track down and kill Crowley.

Withholding the string of Enochian curses that hung at the edge of his tongue, Castiel fought hard to think up some sort of failsafe. For months, he'd been trying to keep Meg off the trail of Crowley, and likewise Crowley from discovering his partnership with Meg. Now, with the Winchesters involved, things were going to get very complicated. They'd want Crowley dead, too.

As well, the angel heard the voices of Rachel, Balthazar, Samandriel, Ezekiel, Inais, Bartholomew—all beckoning him back to Heaven. Deigning to first address the most critical issue, Castiel ascended into battle with his brothers and sisters.

Only minutes later, he suddenly heard Sam's prayer. At first, he'd intended to disregard it, seeing little other choice, but then the words "ark of the covenant" rang through his head in saving grace. Immediately, Castiel ported himself to the younger Winchester's side.

"I'm here, Sam."

Hopefully one good thing could go as intended today. One more heavenly weapon was one more victory against Raphael, and therefore an advantage they desperately needed right now.

But then Sam was calling him an idiot, citing some film, and frankly Castiel felt the idiot for so easily believing the lie. His anger flared hot and he practically dared Sam Winchester to try and make good on his promise to kill him. The angel was in no mood for these puerile games, and the hostility he felt was like a second skin. Not to mention that every time he looked at the boy, it was his own failure staring him right in the face.

Completely unintimidated by Sam's height and threats, he was ready to argue, but… thinking it over quickly, perhaps it could work in his favor. If he was smart about this, and very, very careful. Castiel wondered if he might actually be ill, or if that was just the feeling of despair again, knocking on his door. He had one demon to forewarn, one demon to throttle, and two hunters to cover in wool.

Was there anyone he wasn't lying to?

Castiel felt repulsed with himself. The constant subterfuge, the increasing odds against him, his weakening position in the war… it was beginning to devour him. He could feel it. Despite this, he followed after Sam with a mask of petty annoyance, stifling the barrage of turmoil roiling inside him like a pit of snakes.

The sight of Dean relaxed him somewhat, although it also sent his anxiety skyrocketing again because of the deception surrounding him. This friend who trusted him was oblivious, and even welcomed him with a weary sense of relief. For a brief, wild moment, Castiel considered telling them everything. The notion lasted about a tenth of a millisecond before he cast it far, far away.

They could never know. He'd promised himself that.

So he lied. Again. Crowley was not hidden from him at all, but he couldn't continue to protest this plan of theirs. Instead, he would pretend to try and locate the King of Hell and then say he was unable. If he continued to argue to no end, they might see through him and suspect how he was attempting to cover his own ruse.

Castiel took care to appear properly grudging and not look either of them in the eye as he let the barefaced lie spill past his lips. Even as he did, the angel lamented the way he'd become and the things he had to do to keep his plans on track. More importantly, to protect his friends.

What a cruel twist of irony it was that the two people who taught him best to lie were now the ones he was deceiving most.

After they went to Samuel for answers only to receive none, Castiel returned them all to the abandoned house where the siblings debated how best to find Crowley. Castiel, meanwhile, remained quiet and gave no answers or advice unless he was asked outright. He feigned ignorance and inability to help as simultaneously guilt made him feel profoundly weary.

Maybe someday he would explain everything to them and they would understand the dilemma he'd faced, the price paid to keep the world as it was and the apocalypse from being restarted. But, until then… they couldn't know. It made for a lonely and dark feeling, and he did want to be forthcoming, but as he'd decided long ago, he had to bear this burden alone.

The burden of knowing he was the one responsible for Sam being soulless, and the Winchesters being torn apart.

Castiel feared he would never be forgiven if he couldn't find a way to fix this. But how could he? Even if he was able to somehow retrieve Sam's soul from the Cage, it would be a beaten pulp. Not for the first time, he mourned his reckless decision. He'd been foolish, proud, and thoughtless to think he could somehow bring Sam back fully. Looking back on it all pained and alarmed him, because his choices lately always seemed to backfire or self-destruct.

Sickened with himself, Castiel sought some form of distraction, and so Dean handed him the remote to the small television.

He hadn't lied about the porn. It really was just there.

As the angel watched the scene with the pizza man and babysitter unfold, he tried to puzzle out the fundamentals of it all. He actually welcomed the inanity at first, thought-provoking as it was. It spared his mind the eddy of doubt and panic warring inside his head, for however brief a time. It was somewhat of a relief, too—as absurd as it sounded.

Mindless entertainment, the saying went.

It was nothing he hadn't seen before. He'd been watching humans for thousands of years, after all. But then, even something so crude and pointless as a debaucherous film betrayed him. Bizarre as it seemed, it caused the angel's mind to wander. His thoughts turned to, of all things, a ring of fire. A hotel room. Bones broken, pride nicked, that demon's too-soft hands sliding between his shoulder blades in that secret spot which rooted his wings. Castiel's breath hitched at the memory.

Dean and Sam were chastising him about something, but he was too distracted to discern what about. Not long after that, Samuel appeared at the house with information, having changed his mind apparently. He was gone minutes later, and Castiel found himself following the Winchesters outside to make preparations, when there she was. Three other demons were with her, and he recalled her mentioning how there were still other Lucifer loyalists out there besides just her.

Meg's haughty demeanor lit up when she saw him coming down the creaking wooden stairs with the two hunters. After all, the angel had informed her that he'd be removing himself from this little venture. Meg wasn't sure why, but she assumed his staying had something to do with the pissing match upstairs. What a delightful, scheming little shit, she thought. She'd have to praise him for it later.

Castiel silently willed the demon to behave. He summoned every ounce of revulsion he could find within himself and arranged it onto his face as he stood across from her. His impatience, however, was very real. If she compromised anything with this recklessness…

But Meg was already smirking up at him, dark eyes glittering with a ready taunt. "Remember me?" she asked in a lazy drawl, looking him over. "I sure remember you, Clarence."

Her tone was playful, even sharp. To anyone else it would have seemed nothing more than errant ridicule, but the roots of that mockery went much deeper—a secret shared just between them. Castiel's fingers itched to smite that smug look off her face. She knew exactly what she was doing, damn it all.

"Why are we working with these…" Castiel couldn't help himself, "abominations?"

He was angry with her still, and made sure she knew it.

Something furtive and sly flickered behind those dusky eyes. One of Meg's eyebrows twitched as that shit-eating smirk she often wore broadened into a full grin. Without words, it said that she was enjoying his reaction. "Keep talking dirty, it makes my meatsuit all dewy."

Castiel's eyes narrowed, his temper blustering. Now she was encouraging him, inviting him into whatever insipid game she was playing. He'd find her fascinating if she weren't so exasperating.

During the uneasy armistice, that resentment only continued to smolder. She wouldn't stop looking at him, throughout the entire exchange. Castiel supposed he never stopped looking at her, either—unable to rein in his heated glare for even a minute. He chided himself, commanding discipline as it pitched in and out of control. She was making a mess of things, bringing the Winchesters into this. Not to mention Crowley wanted her dead. Her life was at risk, this was dangerous. Was she out of her mind?

With the way her lips kept twitching at him, that question was answered.

"Give me the knife for a minute."

Castiel glanced sharply at Sam, instantly suspicious. He saw that Meg's reaction was strikingly similar, so at least her survival instincts had not taken too dramatic a hit. All the same… Sam Winchester, he trusted. Sam Winchester without a soul, he did not.

Don't give it to him, he thought errantly, surprising himself.

That knife could destroy her. The situation made Castiel suddenly very nervous. More and more, he was finding he disliked it when things threatened her. It was bizarre, but for some unearthly reason he couldn't fathom, the angel felt that only he should ever be allowed that liberty.

But Meg did surrender the knife, not taking her eyes off Sam for a second as she held it up, leveling him with a thousand unspoken threats. She handed it over then, visibly annoyed about having to do what he asked. Immediately, Sam lunged without warning and killed one of the demons under Meg's command before anyone had finished reacting to the sudden flurry of movement.

He then went on in a wild, seething tone about how the thing was more interested in killing them all than getting the job done, and Castiel relaxed some. His emotions were intriguing—a vast hindrance, but intriguing all the same.

His gaze slid back to Meg, and she stared at him pointedly. Communicating in so many words and yet not speaking at all. Somehow, the angel knew that look.

That look promised trouble.

Meg made a show of looking him up and down suggestively, her eyes exploring his body with transparent appreciation. It flustered him. What in hell was she doing? Was she deliberately fucking with him? It was an expression he often heard Dean use, and it seemed appropriate now. A chorus of crickets filled the night as Castiel saw his friend giving them both a strange look. Inwardly, he backpedaled, trying to banish all evidence of the tension he felt from his face.

Was she trying to sabotage everything? Would she tell them? Her mannerisms were subtle enough, and Castiel supposed that since neither Sam nor Dean knew they were working together in private, they would likely suspect nothing. But her behavior still set him on edge. Worse, Meg appeared to know all this and was deeply gratified by it.

Demons, he thought blackly.

better beware, I go bump in the night
devil-may-care, with a lust for life
I know you can't resist me
boy, you better run for your life

In the short time before they would leave, Castiel cited that he needed to return to Heaven to speak with his lieutenant. But he did not need to speak to Rachel. Nor did he go to Heaven. Instead, he left the abandoned house and went directly to Crowley's prison. Heart hammering uneasily, he felt a dose of panic begin to set in at what was happening and how out of control things were spiraling.

"Ah, Castiel. What brings your feathered rump to see me today?"

Castiel looked around at the carnage of torture surrounding them both, ashamed all over again to be associating with this demon. Bracing himself against the self-loathing he felt, the angel warned the King of Hell what was coming, despite that he wanted nothing more than to kill Crowley himself.

"Of course the Winchesters are coming. I had Grandpa Campbell invite them."

welcome to the nightmare in my head
the spider crawling down your spine
the monster in your bed
I know you want to risk it
just give in and you won't be sorry

Returning to his friends and finding Meg and her backup ready as well, the small band of misfits made way to the prison. As they deliberated over what to do, she stood close to him—too close—and Castiel wasn't sure if it was purposeful or not. He forced himself to ignore her completely, both for his own peace of mind and sanity. Least of all the reason they were here.

He remained heavily guarded, what with their last encounter, but the way she was acting tonight only made that need more prominent. Castiel still didn't understand what was happening, not at all—not with her, nor with himself. The way he always felt so much when they occupied the same space together… it bothered him. The demon seemed to know it too, and wasn't afraid to use it against him.

"Meet me at the side door," he told them.

Meg smiled over at him when he led them safely inside, the barest curve of her lips inciting him right down to his grace. She eyed how he held open the door for her to pass through and shook her head. "Nice to see chivalry isn't dead."

Castiel squinted after her, further annoyed that she was determined to put him more on edge than he already was. He had to get a handle on himself. He couldn't allow her to string such a reaction out of him. He was better than that. Despite his irritation, though, the familiarity of her incorrigibleness was grounding. It provided an anchor for him to concentrate on which he hadn't anticipated, but took full advantage of. Because although their host was privy to their arrival and a plan was already set in motion, Castiel still harbored a wrong sort of feeling. He couldn't account for it, but something wasn't right.

Perhaps it was the guilt gnawing away at him. Whatever the case, his vocal chords worked of their own volition, low and quiet as the group passed the decrepit cellblock so that only she could hear. "Stay close to me."

It was said in resignation, a duty borne out of debt, but when Meg glanced his way, her brow was quirked at the peculiar nicety. Castiel was already focused on other things, determined and militant as he led them further in. Their flashlights swept down the filthy corridor, paving a crude path they struggled to see. The entire facility was eerily silent overall, with no sign of Crowley anywhere.

Feeling unsettled, Meg arrowed her eyes to Castiel. He wore a hard, cautious expression as he scanned the darkness that almost belied what he was. She knew her own reasons of course, but what was it about Crowley that made the angel so nervous? The King was little match for him, but maybe it wasn't that at all. Maybe her little treetopper just harbored what she did: a very strong impression that something was not right here.

Castiel felt something inside him cramp at the dead creature in a nearby cell. It was one of the very shifters Meg had sent him after. For a moment he panicked, thinking surely she would see and become suspicious, but then a voice broke through the quiet, drawing all their attentions.

"You've gotta get me out of here."

It was a female djinn. She was shackled to the bed she sat on, looking as though she'd endured some form of torture. The thing was dangerous to the root of her bones, a monster, and yet she looked so small sitting there. She was clearly petrified.

Sam urged them all away, indicating that they had little time, and Castiel was for once grateful to him. However, when they stepped into the next illuminated hallway, Meg practically ran face first into her partner's trenchcoated back.

"Wait."

The angel had gone stock still, grace crackling around him to the point where she had to take a step back. Blue eyes glazed over, and Castiel appeared to be listening intently to something that no one else could hear. He wore a strange, gaunt expression as he looked back from where they'd come, and everyone else followed suit, trying to see what he'd heard.

Meg soon caught on, blanching at the sound. "Damn it," she grated out. "Here come the guards."

They all heard it then: the baying of dogs. Never let it be said that Crowley wasn't a stickler for methods tried and true.

Deans' face went slack and pale. "Hellhounds," he said, even as the howls came closer and closer at impossible speeds.

They all took off at a dead run, eventually bursting through a set of double doors as the hot breath of the hounds slapped at their heels. Castiel heard the distinct sound of two bodies hitting the floor and something inconceivably cold stole over him. Before he could consider what that feeling was, small hands were suddenly gripping tight over his arm. He afforded her an added boost of speed, hauling her with him as the brothers lead the way.

Meg's errant darkness clung to his light, actually doing as he'd told her for once and keeping close. After that, the angel's actions weren't his own. Sam and Dean were working on barring the doors and instantly his hand reached back, pressing her out of harm's way, not even realizing he was putting himself between Meg and the imminent threat. On the other side of the doors, her two remaining henchmen were torn to shreds, their screams echoing over the barking snarls.

"I knew this was a trap," Dean growled out, letting Meg have a dirty look.

The demon had already regained her cool demeanor, eyeing the hunter up with a prompt retort. "What do you want, a cupcake?"

Sam had finished salting the door, but the scraping of claws still carried from the other side. "Alright. That should keep them out."

The small port windows were blood-splattered. "Not for long," Dean replied, looking first to Castiel and then Meg—the only two in the party who could actually see what they were up against. "How many are there?"

"Lots," said Meg.

Castiel grimly nodded his agreement. He counted four. Inwardly, he was furious at this new development. Hellhounds, of all things. That was not the plan as they'd discussed it. Crowley had sent them for Meg, he was certain of it. Not to mention that Sam and Dean could have easily been killed along with those demons!

"Well, I'll be pulling for you," Meg was saying now. "From Cleveland."

"What?" Dean barked.

She shrugged, smiling coolly. "I didn't know this was going to happen." Castiel looked at her sharply. What did she—oh. She was leaving. Good. One less person he had to keep alive. "Bright side?" Meg offered them all a winning smile. "Them chewing up my meatsuit ought to buy you a few seconds. Seacrest, out."

The demon tipped her head back and parted her lips wide, preparing to desert the body she was possessing. But nothing happened.

Castiel read the sudden fear on her face, almost distraught himself to see it there. He didn't think he'd ever seen her look afraid before. The angel cast out his senses, scanning over her body, her smoke, seeing the invisible chains that were cinched around both forms which he hadn't noticed until now. "A spell, I think." He looked into her face, alarmed now as well. "From Crowley. Within these walls, you're locked inside your body." Angry again, Castiel experienced wrath. This was not what they had discussed!

"Karma's a bitch, bitch," said Dean, almost selfishly glad for their plan getting botched.

Meg regarded the hunter with baleful insolence and attempted to stifle the panic she felt. Trapped. She hated that word and despised the feeling. Her expression further soured, and she glanced to Castiel for any clue on what to do next.

Surprising them all, Sam suddenly held up the demon killing knife, switching the blade around so that he could extend the handle to her. "You can see them. Take this, hold them off. It's our best shot."

There was something inscrutable in her eyes. Some deeply buried pain that flared ever so slightly to life, only to be quickly smothered back down and replaced by grim acceptance. "At Crowley," Meg said tightly, briefly meeting the angel's eyes before looking back to Sam.

Castiel realized with some shock that she was quite literally prepared to die, right then, so that Crowley would not see the light of another day.

"Take it and go. You kill the smarmy dick. I'll hold off the dogs." Dark eyes fell again on the angel, a glimmer of something strange there.

Well, shit. If she was gonna die, she might as well.

Suddenly, her lips were on his and somewhere there was lightning.

It was nothing like she'd imagined at all. Even as he went rigid as a statue, a rush of alien emotion lanced through her. It shook her to her very core, a tingle of something forgotten stirring out of dormancy. Every nerve ending seemed to explode, and she nearly blacked out her original intention for such a gamble.

Immediately, it was all too much and Meg pulled away, plastering a smile on her face to disguise how deeply affected she was. Everything around them seemed unnaturally slowed down. Distant, as though lost in a fog. Dean and Sam were not there. Hellhounds did not exist. There was no King of Hell, no war in Heaven. Just a crackle of something primeval.

Two puzzle pieces sliding into place.

Castiel stared at her, distraught and somewhat bewildered by what she had done. She'd pulled away almost as quickly, and he was stunned for all of three seconds before something foreign and arcane seized hold of him. The angel felt possessed. Suddenly, he needed to touch her again like that.

The look in his eyes told her what would happen next.

The demon's smug smile was wiped away as Castiel grabbed her, and everything became a blur. She felt herself being manhandled around and then he was slamming her up against the wall, the press of his mouth descending back down and melding hot over hers. Meg thought she might have tasted hesitation at first, but it was quickly swept away a moment later. The kiss was charged, restarting time from its standstill. Castiel invaded every dark corner of her, a blazing passion roaring to life from seemingly out of nowhere.

To be honest, nothing reached his thoughts other than the sinful, perfect, mystifying feel of having her pressed against him. But if he'd acknowledged their stunned company at all in that singular moment, the angel would have probably thought: to hell with Sam and Dean.

She was magnificent. How had he never noticed before now?

Castiel raked a hand through her hair possessively as his other demanded she be crushed back into him. Meg had quickly become pliable in his arms, letting his mouth ravish hers as she returned his kiss with a crazed dose of ardency. The sensation of his grace washing over her was intoxicating, an electrical current that vibrated through her lips and shook straight down her spine. With each passing second, Meg was more aware of the tingle spreading all throughout her borrowed body and creeping into her polluted soul.

It was like a light switched on for them both, and everything changed. The hand dragging down from her hair over her neck to hold her was like a ballast, a center of hope and comfort, and Meg was sure she'd never look at the angel the same way again. It was an awakening.

It was coming home.

As quickly then as he'd needed to have her, he needed to retreat. Castiel drew back with a shudder, staring at her half in horror. Meg was breathless, standing idly for a moment, flying high. Her eyelids fluttered back open, light rushing in. She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting, but it sure as hell hadn't been that. Her knees felt suddenly weak, like she might crumble at any second.

Life itself was rushing through her.

What the hell had just happened? Somehow, Meg felt like maybe her plan had just backfired on her. Still reeling, she recognized the warm heat of Castiel's large hand pressed over her sternum, fingers lost in the dark tresses of hair. He allowed that hand to slowly slip away, all while trying desperately to ignore the sensation of thorns still stinging at his lips.

No one else existed but him in those wild moments, and Meg needed more. Trembling, it took everything she had just to formulate her thoughts into words. "What was that?"

It was a question loaded with a thousand more like it. Castiel did little else but stare at her, stunned and shamed and confused and angry again. He didn't understand, either. What had just happened? Everything in him screamed for the destruction of this creature, and he couldn't reason why. There were the obvious reasons but, given their partnership, he shouldn't have wanted to kill her. Yet every cell in his makeup did, something short-circuiting in his brain that couldn't reconcile what had been ingrained and what he now was feeling. Because, at the same time, the thought of any harm coming to her suddenly alarmed him.

Harrowed by all of it, Castiel floundered. He could think of nothing else to say, so he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "I learned that from the pizza man."

Dean and Sam were gaping at him like he'd lost his mind.

He surely had.

Meg appeared dazed, as though she were still trying to regain her bearings. "Well. A+ for you. I feel so… clean."

Gathering herself with a troubling amount of effort, the demon nodded once and straightened her spine. She raised her hand, revealing the angel blade—his blade?—gripped there. She was ready.

Castiel regarded the sight with abashed bewilderment, thrown again and wondering how the hell she'd managed to lift his weapon. How had she even been able to? It responded to him, obeyed him—

Dean was already talking over his thoughts, abolishing them as reality clawed its way back. "Is that gonna work on a hellhound?"

"We're about to find out," replied Meg, in the only way she could. She jerked her head towards the direction of safety. "Run."

No, Castiel thought, the single word echoing through his head. He wrestled it back down, becoming angrier still, because it—like so much else tonight—did not belong. Yet as he and the Winchesters ran for the opposite doors, he couldn't help but glance over his shoulder at her a final time. Meg was already facing the sealed door, his blade poised in her hand and a losing battle descending imminently upon her. She was small, he knew, but fierce in nature, looking somehow mighty even as she stared down death.

Go back, go back, shouted a voice somewhere deep within him. That was too many hounds. Too many for one demon to face alone.

What the hell was wrong with him? Had she done something to him? Castiel felt as though his grace was restless, fritzing. He tried to rein it in, willing it to behave as it should. Determinedly, he surpassed the brothers, refusing to look back again. He was an angel of the Lord. His actions were not governed by some lowly demon. He ordered his vessel to regain control of itself.

And then it felt as though he was being torn apart from the inside out. Without his consent, Castiel's own atoms betrayed him, blasting apart in a chaotic storm as he was repelled back to Heaven. The world around him lit up behind his eyes in a burning heat, and then all went black.

a shot in the dark, a past lost in space
you hunted me down like a wolf, a predator
you loved me and I froze in time
hungry for that flesh of mine

Strapped down and bound in every way neither her body nor smoke could escape, Meg writhed and screamed against the deep bite of the knife Christian Campbell and the demon possessing him handled. She was no stranger to pain, and she could take it better than most. But somewhere secret and far away, an unbidden voice inside her screamed louder, desperate and silent.

It pleaded a single name, traversing across the corporeal planes and straight through the dimensional walls separating Heaven and earth.

When the angel finally came to, he wasn't sure how long he'd been unconscious. Disoriented at first, Castiel laid still. His vision swam, his ears rang, and his grace quavered from the abuse of the banishing sigil.

"—stiel. Castiel. Cas!"

Someone was shaking him.

"Gracious," the voice of Samandriel murmured. "Is he alright?"

"Better get Rachel, Manny. Go on, buzz off. "

"Yes, of course."

There was a flutter of wings and Castiel found himself blinking up dazedly into the worried visage of Balthazar. The quiet tranquility of his favored heaven surrounded them. Head throbbing, the angel tried to make sense of what had happened. The impact must have jarred him, because he could focus on nothing else but his brother's incessant fretting, which appealed for his full attention. Had he been in a fight? Had he suffered the effects of Joshua's Horn yet again? Castiel was sure they'd reclaimed that weapon from Balam…

"Shit on a bloody turtle, Cas, what's going on?" Balthazar's demands cut through his scattered thoughts, and Castiel saw that the other angel was looking around surreptitiously to be sure they wouldn't have unwanted company. "Lucky you didn't get beamed back to Raphie's side!"

The past few hours came rushing back, and Castiel promptly forgot all previous notion of self-importance or the war. "I have to go."

Even as he said it, he was on his feet, Balthazar scrambling after him. "What are y—"

Without another word, Castiel spread his wings and plummeted back towards earth, reaching desperate, breakneck speeds. His take off had blasted even Balthazar back a step from the force of it.

"The hell's gotten into you?!" his brother bellowed after him, receiving no reply.

The boys were in danger. She was in danger. Her voice, distant and disembodied, pierced straight through his grace. She needed him. Castiel's wings pounded at the sky, propelling him faster and faster.

His loyalty to the Winchesters he understood. He would die for them—had died for them. But what in Father's name could have suddenly commanded his fidelity over that damned beast so completely?

Castiel was a slave to it. The alien instinct ruled him, drove him. He ignored the daunting implications as something strange and dormant shook itself to life, surging to the surface again. He was panicking, losing his mind—furious at her, but something was wrong. Even as he sought to end her life, something buried deep down within him rushed to save it. He had no right for this concern, no reason at all. It was so obscenely unfounded, and yet his grace slammed against the delicate, fleshy barrier Castiel wore, needing to reach her before it was too late.

She was indispensible, he told himself. That was why. He needed her to win the war. What else could it possibly be? He needed her, or all his carefully laid plans would crumble like pillars of dust. Raphael would win and the rest of Creation would lose everything. But that arcane pull was nothing logical at all.

Rather a pure, sentient need to protect.

I will save you from yourself
time will change everything about this hell
are you lost, can't find yourself?
you're north of heaven
maybe somewhere west of hell

Meg sauntered out from where she'd been hidden and waiting, all thorns and hungry vengeance. She came to stand in the gap between Sam and Dean, looking positively malevolent.

"Crowley."

There was utter delight on her blood splattered face, and surprise showed in Crowley's expression when he laid eyes on her. He'd clearly expected her to be dead by now. Just as fast as that surprise showed though, he hid it in favor of cool, casual pleasantry.

"Whore."

"Okay, you know what?" Meg raised her hand and clenched her fingers in together, using her dark power to inflict injury on him. The King of Hell's eyes went wide as he immediately began to cough up blood. Meg afforded Dean a little slide of the eyes, sidelong. "The best torturers never get their hands dirty," she said in a smooth, velvety drawl. As Crowley stayed doubled over, Meg turned her attention back to him, silently thrilling. She hid it well, but the exhilaration she felt was overwhelming.

Yes.

Oh, yes.

He was hers. Finally. She was going to kill him. The relief and satisfaction was barely veiled, surging to the forefront of her mind. Her smile was fierce, half-manic and ridden with ancient rivalry. The Kurdish steel in her hand was poised and ready for the King's blood, and the glint of her teeth hungered for it.

Her voice was cruel and vengeful. Though even as she said the words, Meg knew this was not for her creator at all. "This is for Lucifer, you pompous little—"

In her exhilaration, she let her guard down. A rookie mistake she would later flay herself for. Her legs were suddenly swept out from beneath her and by the time she looked up, Crowley was on his feet, the trap broken, her knife in his hand.

His weakness had disappeared—perhaps an act all along. "You don't know torture, you little insect," he told her in a sharp, superior voice. Both Winchesters were pinned to either wall, just as helpless as she was. But then something happened, and a familiar sound came to them all: the flutter of wings.

"Leave them alone."

The rough voice was like a heavenly choir.

Crowley's temporary smugness was gone as he realized he was now facing an angel, a demon, and two very pissed off Winchesters. A nervous smile crossed his face as he took a halting step back. "Castiel. Haven't seen you all season," he joked halfheartedly. He was looking at the angel like he wasn't quite sure what he was playing at. "You're the cavalry now?"

"Put the knife down," Castiel said of the blade aimed at Meg, and he meant it. Over Crowley's shoulder, he saw her get to her feet, eyeing him admiringly. She was covered in blood he recognized as belonging to a hellhound. Even as that knowledge attested to her strength and skill, every instinct he possessed screamed wildly at him to protect her from this fallen king.

Crowley was pressing his luck, putting on a show. "You that bossy in Heaven?" he wondered, eyes narrowing suspiciously as if to say: the fuck you think you're doing, angel? He simpered a bit to cover it up. "Heard you're losing out to Raphael. The whole affair makes Vietnam look like a roller derby."

Castiel's features twisted foully. The demon just couldn't resist getting a good poke in.

Crowley craned his neck to the side a little to peer at what lay beside Castiel's feet. "Hey, what's in the gift bag?"

A burlap sack rested on the ground. Castiel plucked a human skull from inside, a dark expression in his eyes as he did so. "You are."

For a moment, he considered actually killing Crowley. Here and now. It would be suicide—but would it be worth it? A lost war for a murdered king? Even Crowley's arrogant smile fell away as he seemed to almost read into Castiel's thoughts.

Kill him. Kill him now!

But he didn't.

There was just… too much to lose.

Castiel ignited the fake bones, provided the guise of an evil sovereign going up in flames at his command. Within seconds, it was done, and Crowley was reduced to nothing but a pile of ash on the floor. Or so it seemed. It was shockingly fast and over before anyone even had the chance to fully process it. But they all looked to him as though he were a hero.

Meg looked so satisfied, so relieved, and then she was gone. With Crowley's spell diminished, she disappeared into thin air.

"Well, she's smart, I'll give her that," Dean was saying with mild chagrin. "I was gonna kill her, too." He glanced back at Castiel with a smirk. "Course, I would have given you an hour alone with her first."

Castiel met his eyes, affecting confusion. "Why would I want that?"

Oh, he'd have time alone with her. Trying not to let his anger show, he listened as the Winchesters assigned him a final task:

"Prison full of monsters. Can't just leave them. Can't let them go."

It was all but a gift basket. Without hesitation, the angel unleashed his frustrations on the vile creatures trapped within the prison's walls, reveling in the destruction he caused, allowing himself the outlet of violence he so desperately needed. He immersed them in holy fire, almost forgetting to make it quick. Even the after effects of having been blasted painfully away did nothing to stem his wrath.

What a tangled web he was weaving. In order to maintain the deception, he had to continue to deceive. He had to lie to his friends' faces. Castiel hated to, and feared that he couldn't continue it much longer—he felt trapped and alone, afraid of the consequences looming darkly before him. He wanted it to be over.

In the last cell, a rugaru alpha stood waiting.

"Where's your weapon, angel?"

It knew this celestial being was working with its captor. That said, it looked on Castiel with utter revulsion, ready to give him a proper fight. The chains binding it suddenly oxidized, withering to dust at its feet.

Maybe the angel was looking for a fight, too.

"I am the weapon."

Murderous eyes shone like dual stars in the lurid cell, and every shadow retreated in fear from the blinding light.

When Castiel was done and every inhabitant was dead, he still wasn't satisfied. Instead, he felt only more confusion. He felt mired, grasping onto something, with no idea what was still tormenting him so profanely. He thought he'd worked through and abolished whatever anger he had festering, vented his frustrations. But still it was there, more prominent now than ever.

Castiel's rage expanded, consuming him. He felt the barest trace of fear, the thoughts plaguing him were so confounding. His vessel shook, and he gripped his hands into tight fists to steady them.

He needed answers. Demanded answers.

Under the force of his murky thoughts, clouds gathered overhead, ominous and dark. Thunder rolled in the distance as he called his weapon forth from some unknown corner of the prison, still tinged with hellhound blood. Crowley would want to meet again soon, to go over a new plan. But Crowley would wait.

Once more, Castiel spread his wings.

drink the wine my darling, you said
take your time, consume all of it
the promises were spoiled before they left your lips
and I don't want to be saved

It began as it had inside that ring of fire: an intent to kill and burn out the stain of her evil to a crisp. Where it ended up was very different.

Meg found the first motel room she could break into, a ratty dive that smelled of cigarettes and must. Her body was healing from that little bout of torture a few hours ago, and she'd taken the time to wash the blood and grime away. With each burn of her power, though, the demon was reminded of who she'd called out for when vulnerable.

Vexed, she locked the door after taking one last look to make sure she hadn't been followed. Not that it was likely. With Crowley now a pile of smoking ash, she'd be safe. But it wasn't another demon who had taken over her thoughts. When she closed her eyes, Meg imagined someone else standing in front of her with his hand pressed over her throat. Body hot, even from the distance he'd struggled to place between them after that little moment of weakness. Her memory became pure fantasy as she pictured him falling with her again in a very different manner, heard him whispering words against her that he'd never say. Feeling his power, showing him hers, overwhelming each other as they fought for control. Hands, teeth, mouths, everywhere.

That angel. That damn angel. Utterly wrecking the King of Hell like a cheap tower of cards. Truthfully, Meg was a little pissed that she wasn't the one punching Crowley's ticket, but when all was said and done, she couldn't care. He was gone. The one stain she wanted erased more than anything else in the world was dead at last. That mattered more to her than who dropped a house on the son of a bitch.

Turning to the bed, Meg stretched her arms over her head and sighed. She needed a shower, needed to plan. Needed about three bottles of whiskey. Within moments, though, her wish list was abruptly cut short and what she got was no consolation prize.

Castiel's arrival was heralded by the motel room lights sputtering in an inefficient coping of his presence of power. Meg was startled at first by the melodramatic clap of thunder, but when she saw him looming there, she looked positively thrilled.

Fuck, he liked to make an entrance.

The demon shook her head in appreciation, smiling like a little canary had just fallen onto her plate. Castiel looked primal, battle ready, and he was glaring at her as though he expected something. "Back for more?" she asked. "Or should I just stand here and act impressed?"

No preface, just a growl with a voice like sandpaper over cut glass. "Why?"

He sounded angry. Meg could feel the power and frustration vibrating off of him, the way it had in the halls of that prison. Her eyes glinted with a dangerous sliver of light. "Why what?"

The angel invaded her space, the light over their heads flickering spastically. "Why did you kiss me?"

Castiel's voice was full of threat, as if he was mere moments from smiting her, and Meg rolled her eyes like a child. Still, there was no mistaking the flash of instinctual fear she felt at the stench of ozone and charged grace. "You kissed back, sugar pie. And one hell of a kiss, at that." Soft lips quirked deviously at the reminder. "You've been holding out on me."

There was a strike of lightning somewhere outside. The fixtures shook slightly, and the wind outside howled against the door.

"Answer me."

The demon bristled at his commanding tone, her own ire rising up. "Or what?" she spat out in challenge.

He could vaporize her at the speed of thought, but Meg couldn't help but be insolent and hold her ground. A part of her, even after everything, still wanted a crack at those pretty little wings. To dig her claws into feathers and tear. Her darkness salivated at the thought of causing him pain, because Castiel wasn't the only one in demand of answers. He'd gotten the better of her, too. Even if he failed utterly to realize it.

She took that sort of thing personally.

That defiance only caused the angel's brow to slam sternly inward. "You're not afraid of me."

Meg couldn't tell if he was disappointed or genuinely confused by her transparent lack of mewling terror. Her own power licked at the ends of his coat, pressing up against him in warning. "Well, I'm not going to beg, if that's what you want."

Castiel frowned, suspecting an underlying offer there, and responded quietly although not gently. "That isn't what I want."

They stood in collective silence for a long time, every fixture in the room precariously trembling as the storm outside gathered. Meg was eventually the one to break it. "Piss or get off the pot, angel. Because while I won't beg, I sure as hell won't just stand here, either."

She could literally feel the invisible grip of his hand at her throat, despite that he hadn't moved a muscle. Could practically see the snapping of his control like a sinew drawn too taught. At the way his blue eyes flashed dangerously, Meg's lips curled over her teeth in a sneer. Maybe it was reckless, but she decided to play into the little power struggle forming between them.

"You want to know why I did it?" All her frustration—sexual or otherwise—made her suddenly volatile. The abrupt change, her voice rough and her eyes too dark, should have warned him. "Because I could. Haven't you ever done something just because you could?"

Of course he hadn't. But Meg wasn't finished.

"Or maybe I just got sick of the dancing around."

The air in the room seemed suddenly thick, the words a cannon shot in the silence between them. Castiel regarded her balefully, looking like maybe he didn't quite understand what she was saying, and maybe a little like he did.

By his reaction, the insinuation in her tone obviously got to him. That unchecked resentment only bolstered Meg's bravado. Her head tilted and those malevolent lips slanted into a smirk that made her features even more seductive. "That being said," she began, pitching her voice low, "how about round two?"

It was time to be proactive, since staring a burning hole through him didn't immediately jumpstart things.

Castiel looked her straight in the eye, sending sparks scattering through her stomach, and lower too. He knew the instant she spoke that it would be different this time. There was a drawl in her voice, a slow slide in her step as she approached, and it was painfully clear she was up to something more than just arguing with him. "What?" The word was an almost physical punch, like he couldn't believe her audacity. The moonlight filtering in through the window splashed against his face, the half-wild expression he wore in anger getting thrown into sharp relief.

He was so damn sexy and he didn't even know it. The fact that he was so oblivious only amplified that attraction she felt. At his bristling hesitation, Meg tossed the hook in front of his nose. "You're obviously not here to kill me. Not anymore. So let's cut the shit already and move some furniture."

There was a part of her that said it just so she could watch his eyes flatten and that dangerous light come back. Cocking a hip in reply to his angled head, Meg dared him without words to play along. To finally take a bite of that fruit.

Castiel's wings fidgeted nervously despite the harsh expression he wore. That same invisible force he'd felt earlier pressed against his back again now, and the source appeared to be Meg herself—a magnetizing influence calling out to him somehow. His grace brushed outwards, reaching slightly when he refused to move. "I don't—" Castiel broke off, having started with such fire and strength, only to have those flames smothered before they could truly amass. His hatred and frustration simmered to a low boil, and Meg could practically see the wheels turning. "I don't know why I came at all."

The words were tinged with unexpected honesty, defeat weaved into every note. His searching eyes revealed the truth of it, how he was needing answers and finding none. Flummoxed, Castiel's body hovered as though it wasn't sure whether to step left or go right. For a moment their gazes held, and Meg wondered at what emotion or pain was resting there in his eyes. The angel looked to be near a breaking point, struggling not to crumble underneath all that weight he so clearly carried. To her genuine surprise, she realized she felt sorry for him.

As the demon smiled again, Castiel thought he should have found the sight hideous. But he was struck by the almost fey beauty of it, immobilized.

"Don't you?" Meg started, with an upturned lift of her eyes as she admired that churlish resolve. She knew why he was here, even if he didn't. "Come on, soldier. Hang up the weight of that trenchcoat for the night, and I'll show you."

This could be so good, if he'd just give in. Meg chanced another step forward, sidling up to him until their clothes were brushing. Her slight demeanor shift from passive to predator had Castiel instantly on guard again, wary of where this was clearly going. Not for the first time, he was convinced the demon had done something to him. Even as he remembered her selflessly willing to die to that Crowley wouldn't live, he couldn't possibly indulge that blossoming appreciation he felt for her. What right did he have? What right did she have?

Flustered, the angel frowned down his nose at her. "What are you… what are you doing?"

His voice wasn't nearly as steady as it had been before. Meg decided she liked that hint of vulnerability. She watched as his chest rose with each breath, eyes slipping briefly shut and avoiding the sight of her at all costs—attempting to calm himself.

She bet that was a tad more difficult with human desire now clouding things up. "What do you think I'm doing, choir boy? I know you're not as stupid as people think you are. Not as innocent, either."

Castiel shook his head, gaze crawling back to hers. It was a physical thing now, smoldering and full of heat. "What we had before was transient," he coolly replied. "Meaningless."

But Meg's smile was salacious, white teeth bared beneath coppery lips. So he had felt that little spark in the ring of fire? I'll be damned, she thought. "That's the best kind, haven't you heard?" She slipped up a hand, slowly moving treacherous fingers over the folds of his coat. "Don't knock it 'til you try it."

"Abomination," he said, every instinct calling for retreat, but there was less venom to it now. "It would be…"

What?

Revolting? Blasphemous? Absurd? All options had crossed his face by now. "Illuminating?" Meg filled in. Her fingers smoothed over his shoulders as she leaned in too close. Castiel watched her, the blue storm of his eyes tracking the movement of her lips as she swiped her tongue against them deliberately. Brushing her nose against his scruffy jaw, Meg murmured to him in a bare voice. "You owe me, angel. Time to show the class what you can really do..."

She'd goaded him like this before once, and the words were a similar challenge then as they were now. What can you do, you impotent sap?

Castiel's fingers were like steel grips on her sides in a sudden surge of speed and shocking power, and the anger was back in his eyes. "Stop your taunting," he growled.

Meg laughed against his ear, her smoky vibrato making his emotions bounce between contempt and desire. "Oh, Clarence. So very worried about what others might think. I can practically smell the self-loathing." Her head turned so that her nose brushed his neck and her breath wafted hot over his skin. "Almost human of you." Dark eyes crawled over his face as she drew back, the whites of them disappearing as they were swallowed by starless pitch. "Are you afraid of a little hellfire?"

Cold blue steel burned into smoldering back coals. "As I recall, you're the one who fell screaming into the fire."

The demon's silent rage at that was palpable, hackles rising in answer to the mordant cut of his tone. With a sharp, metallic hum, Meg suddenly had his blade in hand again. The point appeared between them almost dangerously, catching the muted light and reflecting it back in their faces. "You may be cute. But I don't trust you."

Castiel considered her behind the drowsy sweep of his eyelashes, the threat there plain as day. "I wouldn't need a blade to kill you."

There was a deceptively hard edge to his voice, making Meg close her eyes and smirk. "Touché." She threw the weapon over his shoulder nonetheless, and it embedded deeply into the doorframe behind them with deadly accuracy. In the next second, his tie was abruptly tight around her hand, and Meg drew the angel forcibly close until they were a breath apart. Castiel was already reaching up, snatching her wrist to glare down menacingly into her eyes.

His breath came shorter now, uneven. Meg felt hypnotized as his voice dropped to a deeper octave and his grip brought her even closer. "I should have smote you the second I could, demon."

It was a final, empty protest.

Meg's breath hitched, veins singing with anticipation and curiosity. The hand he held shook a little, the bones nearly cracking from his strength. "You could do a lot of things, angel."

Her eyes were an abyss he grew lost in. They defied him, lured him. They dropped to his lips, waiting before slowly climbing back to that turbulent blue storm. Even though this thing between them terrified her, Meg needed more. She was a moth, captivated by the fire she saw inside of him. One taste would never be enough.

Castiel's demeanor changed—so close now, she could feel the warm breath from his mouth hitting hers. The way he stared at her was unrelenting, as though he was waiting for her to become too scared, or pull away and it have all been some sort of game.

Meg did neither.

A moment ago, he'd been the one in control. Using his authority to intimidate and threaten her. But whatever influence he had before was now completely gone, and as his outraged expression dissipated, Castiel's face became filled with staunch desire. "If we do this…" he breathed out, in a whisper that was intensely dark and full of anxious intention.

"Would you shut up already?" Meg retorted in velvet provocation. She tilted her head and took a final step into him, so close he felt the too intimate push of her hips against his, showing how perfectly their bodies fit together. "Take it, Castiel," she muttered, the words just barely grazing his lips. "It's yours."

She was immediately rewarded with a soft groan that rose in the base of his throat, and then he did. Meg's grin was broad and sharp, even as Castiel crashed his mouth down onto hers.

Heat surged into them both at the contact, and a sharp pierce of something lost went shooting throughout their bodies. It was a domino effect, a damn breaking that was immediately carnal and punishing. Just like in the prison, the union of their mouths was electric—a catalyst to something ancient and powerful. What was forgotten and abruptly cut short within those halls soared back to life again, a tiny ember gaining light and strength as heady as the circle of holy fire which had once held them captive.

It consumed them both as everything became tunnel vision, hands and mouths snatching at each other urgently. Neither cared how criminal it was, neither realized how familiar it felt. Castiel swallowed her moans, tightening his grip to a bruising hold around her. He lost all thought of where they were, what they were, what could make this the worst decision he had made in a long line of many.

The full press of him from chest to legs, their bodies molding as though they were made for each other? It was completely invigorating. Meg laughed breathlessly as something crashed to the floor, breaking apart at their feet. "Careful, precious," she panted against his mouth, forcing him further back and stripping him of the trenchcoat. "Someone might think you're actually looking forward to this."

Castiel grunted carelessly, kicking aside the pieces of lamp. It didn't matter, nothing did. Everything was miles away as the world around them flared to ash, just as it had in the prison at the first touch of their lips. Broken glass crunched underfoot and his back hit something hard—a doorframe. The angel growled at her grab for dominance, wings stirring, and deliberately seared her with his power. Meg gave a strangled curse, clawing at him with her smoke and talons, temper bridling. She shoved him back against the wood, biting his lip hard in reply as she devoured his mouth and yanked at his hair. It was like a physical fight, the way angel and demon struggled against each other. Against what was happening.

Another crack of lightning struck ferociously from beyond the window, the storm outside gaining malice. Regardless of instinct, Castiel found himself suddenly appreciating the abuse. Both of them were so filled with hate these days, so torn with desire. The wooden hearts in their chests beat wildly in tandem, thundering behind borrowed ribs, because it was something else too. As much as it was reprehensible, it was inspiriting. There was need, there was solace. Meg was startled by the sudden strength of it, dazed and drunk on the taste of that intoxicating, clean flavor he poured into her.

Castiel groaned against her mouth at the sudden feel of deft hands sliding into his jacket, the brush of contact undoing him as the vibration of sound reverberated through her and demanded Meg's breathless reply. She arched into him, seizing hold of his lapel to steady herself against that odd sensation of purity swamping her.

It was something like surrender. As much as they hated one another, they needed to know more, feel more—of this, whatever it was. This thing between them that neither could ever hope to explain. In the history of Creation, nothing like this had ever happened, and it was as though they were under some spell. Like they hadn't touched in centuries and were starved for each other.

The intense physical ache that curled low in his stomach was overwhelming, and Castiel couldn't stop himself from noticing how she felt under his fingertips. The sensation of warm skin as he grasped her neck, the curve of her body, the softness of her mouth. How her chest rose and fell, faster and faster, heaving against his—it was temptation itself. To counter it, his inner dialogue was practically deafening. Castiel knew that every law in the universe forbade what was happening between them, but he was losing ground at an alarming rate. Every cell in his vessel seemed desperate for her, and, in the back of his mind, he wondered if she was still the villain. With some horror, he realized he didn't care. Meg was making wrecked noises beneath his hands, and he matched the demon's fervor as another voice—stronger, louder—rang out from the heart of his grace and drowned out all reason. It wiped his mind, commanding this be allowed to unfold, that it didn't matter and all that mattered was her.

An instinctual surge of lust howled through the angel's veins, rampant and reckless as Meg grabbed at his belt and pulled it free. A pathetic, stunned groan broke free from his mouth and Castiel had to put his free hand out to catch himself against the wall behind her. Forbidden wasn't even a strong enough word for what this was. It was a funeral pyre.

The light above their heads burst, showering them in sparks like flecks of lightning. They crashed into the dresser, wood and brass rattling, sheetrock fissuring. Meg grabbed a fistful of the angel's shirt, yanking it out from the waistline of his slacks. Her other hand reached up to pull at the ends of his hair—despairing how far away he seemed, even when so focused on her. She shouldn't care, but it felt like he would never be close enough. His heartbeat thundered beneath her palm and Meg called out his name.

Castiel.

Better than Clarence. Clarence she could tease. But Castiel was a creature who could make her break apart in his hands.

Her sudden actions seemed to unleash something in him. There was a low, urgent moan from someplace deep in his throat at the sound of her speaking his name like that. His hand tangled in the hair at the side of her head, demanding and possessive as he slid his tongue against hers. The dark tresses slipped through his fingers like sand in an hourglass, as though they were running out of time. Castiel pushed up her shirt, pressing against the flesh of her stomach, feeling the scars, feeling how soft and pliable she was in contrast to the beast she kept hidden. His warm hand snuck around her middle and back, splayed against the curve of her spine, feeling the way she moved and breathed under his touch. Her sounds and caresses were that of a siren, snaring him in rapture, and Castiel tightened his hold so that their bodies were crushed into a single form. Stifled cries of pleasure spilled from their joined mouths, his actions having caused their hips to grind together torturously.

The angel's lips tore away from hers to drag over her cheek, her throat, large hands moving against the rough slide of her jeans and marveling at the reactions he was drawing out of her. "Virras nor," he murmured against the vulnerable expanse of soft skin. "Virras. Perfect."

Castiel's voice was black as night, husky and pleasure-addled, and Meg shuddered helplessly at what he was doing to her. "Oh, hell," she gasped, throwing her head back. It felt as though she were back in that ring of fire, the heat licking at her skin, searing her all the way down to her smoke.

Castiel was shocked at his own behavior, how easily it came to him. Desire flooded his body at her reedy sigh, and he forgot his inability to reconcile Heaven's laws with these feelings, these sensations she brought out in him. Emotion slammed through them both, seemingly from out of nowhere. It was all too much and yet it felt like it might never be enough. The way their tongues were entangled, the sound and feel of their labored gasps, the solidness of him everywhere against her and her everywhere against him. So indescribable, so beyond stunning and yet unlike what either had imagined. Deeply buried sorrow took hold of their hearts, lending a strange desperation that neither could understand.

What was this?

"Now," Meg ordered. Castiel's breathing was ragged beside her ear, and she suddenly wasn't content, wasn't satisfied. She reached up between their bodies, gripping his crisp white shirt and tearing it open. Buttons scattered. Understanding, he shoved the leather jacket down off her shoulders, and Meg helped him shrug quickly out of the suit jacket, which fell in a pile of fabric at their feet. They crashed together again in tandem, feeling as though they were drowning.

The way he pulled at her, his hands on her hips, then her back and waist, was becoming more and more frantic. A picture frame rattled beside their heads and fell as Meg's back hit the wall. Castiel's hands skimmed down to her hips again, grabbing roughly, hoisting her up, and she became completely caught up in the way he was touching her. Wild, desperate, and hungry with his whole body. If she didn't know any better, she'd have swore it felt like she was the only thing he wanted in the entire world. Like she was actually something he revered. A desolate, indistinct gasp of arousal and longing escaped Meg's mouth and into his. She couldn't even deny it—something disturbingly similar was awakening in her, too.

What was happening? Just as it had with the kiss, her plan to simply seduce him while having a little fun herself was backfiring. Meg reached out, hands sliding up his chest and shoulders, torturously slow over hot flesh. Lean muscle bunched and flexed under her fingers, and Castiel stuttered a little in surprise at the feeling. He seemed to like it, and groaned low as Meg did it again, just to hear the hitch in his breath. She could see the pleasure he felt when her fingers curled and touched, mapping patterns she knew would set his skin tingling.

Castiel tried to catch his breath, tried to make sense of it all. "Need…" he muttered faintly, speaking into her mouth, not sure how to vocalize what he was trying to say. Need what?

"I know," Meg managed to reply, hitching her legs up higher on his waist and lifting her hips into his. The friction was maddening, divine. She uttered a low sound and reached out, tracing the curve of his bottom lip with her tongue, satisfied when he sucked in another breath. She'd assumed she would need to show him, but the angel was a quick study. Almost too quick, for supposedly being new at this.

Castiel was already pulling his tie out of his collar, out of her grip, and Meg quickly pulled off the rest of his shirt. Her own followed shortly after, and the way her back arched allowed him to push back just enough so that she could get her hands between them again, shoving her jeans down over her hips. Castiel peeled them off her legs, boosting her up again, his sounds broken against her as she moved. He braced against the wall with a hand as his fingers swept once more over the ridges of scar tissue from her burns—scars he had given her.

No one had ever marked her like that before, she thought. While Castiel felt an eddy of guilt he couldn't understand at the reminder, Meg felt pride. She felt vindicated. As though she possessed something of his that no one else did or ever would.

If a human had been watching, unknowing of what they were and what it meant for them to be doing this, they might have mistaken the caress for something soft and loving. But any contact at all between the two of them bore an explicit threat, no matter what had taken hold of their minds. It was dangerous, the way their power sparked and clashed. Every move Castiel made caused his light to flare in warning against the demon he knew was just under the surface. Meg's darkness replied by snarling around her like a thorny fence, clawed and coiled around his grace like a vine. Neither of them were flesh and bone at their core, and even when Castiel broke the kiss to look at her, the current between them didn't die.

They should have been repulsed with each other.

"You must feel it, too," he managed in a breathless voice.

Meg could only nod, aware of the burning sensation just touching her skin. She stared up at him, eyes bottomless as a void as they drank him in. His seemed bluer somehow. As though some of that light was bleeding through and reaching out to her.

Even in the haze of desire, they both knew he wasn't talking about their trueforms reacting to each other. Castiel referred to the cosmic lure that made them desperate for one another. That arcane, unseen force that rocked through them in reply to this intimacy that now seemed inevitable, looking back.

There was a rush of wind, a terrible but delicious pull in her middle, and suddenly they were entangled on the bed together. Anxious expectation filled them as the rest of their clothing was shed in a frenzy. Castiel's fingers dug into her like a vice, too focused on her to obey the instinct trying to recoil from that lawless eddy of shadows. They weren't their own anymore, had control of nothing—not their bodies, not their own vocal chords. They were reliving someone else's past, slaves to its spell.

As Meg's fingers curled sharp and bloody over the supple angle of his shoulder, she remembered vividly what it was to see this angel decimate that vampire nest. Then there were the hellhounds, and others of her kind, and she considered how easily he could destroy her with any one of the sensual touches he placed along her skin. The danger of it all was completely addictive and irresistible, and she couldn't resist inciting it.

Castiel's grace resisted her attempts to mark his flesh, crackling against her demon form as she made him bleed. Healing for him meant all the mess was gone, clothes smoothed out and threads woven back together. Gore just blinked away, not a smear of blood left on unblemished skin. But there were some things he couldn't wash away. There was a darkness in him too that hadn't been there when they first met. If it was, Meg hadn't seen it. But she could practically taste it now.

In spite of that dormant affliction, Castiel's eyes as he drank her in shone with a sudden radiance that darkened even the sun. The thin membrane of his vessel was barely enough to contain the way his grace flared bright, and Meg reeled in awe at the way his control slipped. Her entire body ached, as though pining his absence. She should never have known such a feeling, but there it was—nestled deep against the gnarled crux of her smoke. She despaired and despised that touch all at once, needing more. Wishing for it to end and that it never would.

Their unified, helpless gasps crashed together in broken harmony. A deeply guttural cry fell from Castiel as he gripped at Meg for support, and the ache that had been burning before blossomed now into a stranglehold on their senses. Every nerve-ending in both vessel and trueform became helplessly fixated on the movement and presence of the other. Fire had instigated their affair and so it consumed them now—skin against skin, each forsakenly aware of how defenseless they were to the other in that moment.

Meg forgot all about her need to regain the upper hand, feeling the angel's face hot against her skin, teeth fastened sharp and bright on the elegant curve of her neck. Her mouth fell open underneath him, pressing heavy, gasping breaths into his shoulder as they descended together.

Castiel groaned as her nails sliced deeper into his muscles—a dark eddy of sound that was almost a growl, rippling back against her body. His vision went momentarily black, and then shockingly bright, as though galaxies were exploding behind his eyes. The intensity was indescribable, and he didn't think he'd ever experienced such staggering physical pleasure before as he did now with her. Mindless, he could barely comprehend it, that such a feeling was even possible.

Lissome hands dragged across his back from where she'd dug in, fierce and too hard and tender all at once, down to the arch that hid his wings. The angel made a punched-out noise at the sensation, the appendages stirring to life. He tried to form a reply, rebuke her even for the power she held over him, but his voice refused to acknowledge anything but the way she felt beneath him. How her mouth brushed his cheek, his ear, his neck, hands roaming down his hips and back and up his spine once more. Each caress felt electrifying and Castiel moaned into her neck, utterly wrecked.

The blood rushed white hot through Meg's veins in answering clamor to his cries, and she rolled her hips hungrily against his, calling out his name. Murmuring for him in a broken and tight voice as stars spotted her vision. Faint moans and Enochian phrases were his only reply, and she grabbed his face and forced his lips to meet hers again, drawing his tongue into her mouth, thighs tightening around his waist. One of Castiel's hands left the curve of her hip to slam into the headboard behind her head. The wood splintered at the impact and the bed made a loud groan in protest. Neither noticed, and his hands were suddenly everywhere on her again, feathery touches that contrasted the rough and punishing haste of the passion that tore through them both like physical torture.

Angry and desperate to the point of wordless anguish, they poured everything they had into each other as though trying to win a battle. Touching, moving, straining for purchase—two monsters entangled in violent sin. It felt as though there should have been a limit to the comfort and gratification they created together, but neither could find it.

Locking her arms around his neck, Meg clung for life as their faces turned in towards each other, ragged breaths and distressed moans becoming one voice. The liquid motion of her body enveloped him, and Castiel wired his eyes shut and clutched the bed sheets, true voice slipping past his own restraint. There was a crackling of glass as the mirror on the wall shattered above their heads. The entire room quaked and shuddered, sounding like it was going to come down around them. Meg gasped in pleasurable agony, her cooler skin a relief against his as Castiel lost control.

The angelic resonance drew another cry out of her, and the demon sunk her teeth into his shoulder to stop the noise. It hurt, but was somehow one of the most beautiful sounds she'd ever heard. The echo of that voice continued to ring in Meg's ears, pull at her smoke, her heart—made her tremble with pain and need and everything that neither of them should have wanted but both ached for.

Somewhere deeply hidden, a far off voice inside them both might once have called this home.

Meg had to squeeze her eyes shut as ruined sounds came out of her mouth and her fingers clutched at him hard, useless. She was falling off the edge of the earth, agonized and yet devastated with relief. So confounded. Castiel pulled her smaller body blindly against his, holding her steady. "I have you." His voice now was strained and breathless as words continued to spill past his lips in mindless adoration. "Ozien," he said, the single word lost in the fever of their passion. "Ozien."

Dark wings, barely corporeal, unfurled to shade their bodies from the shrapnel as they consummated what had been set in motion over millennia ago, when the mark of his guardian bond was placed on her human soul. Vice and triumph showed in their wake, every war they ever fought seeming to suddenly not matter at all.

The sounds that came from them were becoming more and more frantic, and Meg grabbed his face and neck in both hands, demanding the touch of his lips, the press of his skin. Castiel's breaths grew sharp and shallow as he was barely able to concentrate, barely able to hold himself together. It was overpowering, and all he could do was lose himself in her as they both despaired for something they couldn't name. It was a sensation like being flung over the edge of something, and they each lost composure in the same instant. The small space of the motel room was a chaos of urgent gasps and begging moans as angel and demon conquered and defeated one another, uselessly clinging to reality and each other as release shook through them.

Just like that, it was over.

Ruined and rebuilt alike, Castiel went slack against her, amazed by the song of her ecstasy. Each moan slowly lowered until there was only a faint shudder between them, and they broke apart just barely, stunned. The glow of his vessel gradually faded, losing light until Castiel's skin was like a man's again.

Still riding high from that foreign, strange emotion, a voice buried somewhere deep and lost inside the demon rose up as they lay embraced. Where have you been, it wondered silently. That voice surely didn't belong to her, but it rang loud in her thoughts as though it did. It said that he was ancient days and taking the entire universe in a single breath. It said she was safe. In that sacred, powerful moment, every part of Meg's body and ravaged soul was alive with this one angel.

The unspoken words had a visible effect on him, fissuring through his expression as though he'd heard her clear as day. "Olani ovcho ol," echoed Castiel's soft reply, and his regard of her was groveling and devout. He suddenly felt as though he'd been lost in the desert for years, but now she was his again.

I found you.

It was heartache and relief, shared as one. Those words did not belong to them, and yet they must have. Meg clutched him tightly to her still, no less dumbstruck at what had just transpired. Castiel's shoulders and back were marred by scratches and crescent-shaped marks, and he could still feel the imprint of her everywhere, could see the bruises on her body where he'd held her so tightly. The demon's skin was glistening and flushed as he gazed down at her now, and Castiel touched her with sudden reverence. The look in his eyes was no longer hungry and dark, his intent no longer punishing, and he realized that the predatory glint was now gone from her completely. Ebony eyes instead turned up at him in helpless, breathless wonder, and Castiel saw that she was not monstrous at all. The woman in his arms was unspeakably beautiful, and as enraptured with him as he was with her.

Meg's chest heaved beneath him, desperate for air, for something that was still missing. Her breathing slowed eventually and became quieter, the longer they stared. In the afterglow, his touch felt heavenly on sensitive skin, leisurely and gentle in contrast to the fever pitch of before.

It was startling how quickly it had happened, how quickly it had ended, and yet neither had any intention of moving away. Hearts raced as their gazes held, still full of raw emotion and defeat. The rain beat steadily against the window along the fringes of their intimate space, filling the silence between them.

They felt it. What was there from the very beginning.

Time seemed thick and substantial as both angel and demon existed in shock together, still reeling in the foggy aftermath of what they had done. Meg had a sudden, reckless desire to never commit any evil ever again. Her thirst for violent things was gone, a memory.

What was he doing to her? What had he done to her?

Castiel experienced a similar revelation, because the demon and the woman suddenly did make too much sense for both himself and his vessel to want. The beauty of them both was equally stunning in that moment, and he didn't know how to reconcile it with himself.

"Meg."

The angel spoke low and quiet in the soft heat between them, almost worshipful. Everything inside him still ached for her, needing more as though time had been lost. Castiel allowed his voice to drop to a whisper, the demon's true name spilling past his lips, unbidden. A name she'd not been called in so very long.

"Amarantha."

Meg shivered at the words, helplessly recoiling at the far too intimate gesture. The way he gazed down at her was heartstopping—like he'd seen the light, and she was salvation itself. The emotions swimming inside her were foreign and frightening, and even as her entire body hummed with an alarming amount of relief, she began to balk under such tumultuous intimacy. The haze of bliss faded.

This was too much. This was… no. No, no, no. She had to escape this, whatever it was. Everything inside her suddenly screamed for retreat and, in her panic, Meg had a wild desire to smoke out and abandon her body completely.

Castiel seemed to realize the very same in that precise moment, his delirious state receding at the profound realization of what was happening. What they were doing, what they had done. It sent a cold uncertainty through him, something that tore into him like a blade before becoming a vice-like pressure in his chest. It was a feeling he couldn't name and the angel began to withdraw, appearing abruptly startled. He gaped at her in mind-numbed shock, as though somehow betrayed.

Even as he retreated, Castiel felt suddenly void of her. He despaired the wrongness of it all, as he'd surely lost all reason, human desire somehow trespassing against holy grace in an earthy coup. To do such evil things… he was suddenly compelled to spread his burning wings and run.

End this, now. Before all is lost.

All good things they'd felt before were now gone.

Feeling exposed and vulnerable, Meg gathered whatever shambles remained of her cool façade. "That was fun, Clarence," she muttered. "Hate to sex you up and run, but I'm a busy girl. Demons to overthrow, and all that." She shoved at him, needing to just be away from that clean presence, and Castiel was already back to being fully dressed, standing beside the bed with that same winded expression as before.

"I am also busy," came his gruff, agitated reply.

Later, neither would remember which of them had fled first that night. Meg would bury the memory of it all beneath a mask of indifference and contempt, as she did so many other things. Castiel would do the same, but with that unyielding righteousness she was more familiar with and knew how to handle. Aggressive flirting between tension and actual feelings, a dropped death threat here and there—at least then they'd be on more familiar ground.

How foolish had they been to surrender on those base affections when every other instinct expressly warned against it? It was humiliating and, more importantly, a huge fucking mistake. Angel and demon were better suited alone, safe with what they knew and what they were designed for. Good, evil. Heaven, Hell. That was how it should have stayed—the natural order. Existing on opposite sides. They didn't belong together, and never would.

But… was it better?

After all, how could something end, when it was never given the chance to begin?

I breathe you in again
just to feel you underneath my skin
the sweet escape is always laced
with a familiar taste of poison

TRANSLATIONS:

ENOCHIAN:

"Mialon." | Damn it.

"Ol hoath." | My love.

"Aishh lit apachana oe mtif cnila, od malpirg oe mtif ooanoan." | The woman with smoke in her bones, and fire in her eyes.

"Faboan vithmong." | Poisonous beast.

"Viiras nor. Viiras." | So beautiful. Beautiful.

"Ozien." | Mine.

LATIN:

"Sui iustus rhetor." | Self-righteous dick.

Author's Note: Please review, if you have a moment! Even one word remarks, constructive criticism, vacuous praise... I accept and appreciate all things. ^_^