for prosperity
Smoke and Mirrors
"Do you ever miss the apocalypse?"
"What?" Meg asks for lack of anything better to do.
The demon has decided to give herself a break from the constant torture to not become crazy. Whether talking to the soul of the girl from Cheboygan and freak out her captors ("Rachel, my name is Rachel."), or telling Crowley the vague location of Lucifer’s crypts does the trick, what does it matter? In the end a break is a break is a break. She’s earned every fucking minute of it.
They’re currently in between tortures, waiting on who’ll win the daily bet they have going. Rachel thinks the next tormentor will be Crowley since he has had her abandoned for some time now, while Meg believes today’s the day either the Winchesters or Castiel will kick down the bathroom door and get her out of this shithole.
So far the odds read Rachel=380, Meg=0. Talk about lost causes.
"I mean, in a perfect world," Rachel continues, "You were a first class demon, I was a puny human. The demons were gonna raise Hell on earth and the Angels were gonna save us all and bring us Paradise."
"The angels were conspiring with demons to kill all humans." Meg interrupts and imagines the girl from Cheboygan give her the Evil Eye.
"Did you not hear the ‘perfect world’ part?" Rachel retorts and wishes she could pace the small bathroom they’re in and bite her nails like she used to do when anxious, but her consciousness now is nothing but a voice inside damaged goods.
Then again, Rachel can’t really complain. So far, she’s had it better than any other meatsuit ever. Only that she’s also had it worse than any other meatsack ever. Rachel’s been front row witness to what demons do to the bodies they ride and it makes her soul crawl in disgust and abhorrence.
Then there is Meg who, when feeling charitable, gives her this corner of her mind to visualize and personalize, a little room to pace and lounge in if you please, watching the world pass by through the demon’s eyes as if it were a TV series. Next Week Episode: ‘The Winchesters bring on the apocalypse. Again.’ Though lately, the demon has been too weakened to maintain the illusion though, so they’re stuck talking to each other when Meg is not screaming herself hoarse.
It’s weird the kind of things you miss when you have no control over your body and Rachel wonders if this is what paraplegic people feel like. Or Stockholm syndrome survivors.
"Now everything’s a mess," she continues less Meg tires of her and sends her back to sleep.
Which will no doubt trigger another demon blackout, what with the bindings she now sports on wrists and ankles, colliding with the sigils Meg had carved as a precaution long before Crowley got his smarmy hands on them. The knock outs keep getting longer and longer and Rachel fears Meg’s impending death, because sometimes not even the pain of torture keeps her awake anymore and the human feels every cut and bruise and carving into her skin and bones, even though the demon tries to take it all on herself.
The actress will never own to her worry though, because Meg is the reason why Rachel’s stuck in this mess to begin with, and because the demon only takes the torture since she knows the human doesn’t have the endurance several lifetimes in Hell gives you not to run your mouth and spill what keeps them barely alive.
"You are kind of good, which must suck for you. And angels are sociopath dicks. And, oh, yes, how the fate of the world weighs on the shoulders of a pair of erotically codependent brothers with daddy issues time and again."
"Not all angels are dicks," Meg counters and that gives Rachel pause. Of course the demon was going to step up for the crazy angel. If she could, Rachel would roll her eyes at her roomie.
"You may think your devotion towards Castiel is endearing, but it’ll kill you!" She snaps with the flare for dramatic only actresses can pull off, suddenly angry at the demon’s blind faith. "Love is gorgeous, and it’s horrible and it will kill you. It’ll kill us both."
In her inner mind, Rachel can imagine the eyebrow arching that Meg likes to overuse. She remembers what it looks like from practicing it in front of the mirror and it doesn’t impress her. The former actress’s seen what’s been done to her face, a swollen mess of old bruises and caked blood, and God, what’s up with the blond hair? She looks horrible. If she was still in showbiz no producer would have hired her, unless they needed Zombie #4.
Rachel used to have producers and directors praise her, promise her she was going places. It makes her bitchy, but there’s no use in crying over spilled milk.
This is her life now.
"Bitter much?"
"I’m not bitter about your boyfriend, sweetheart." Rachel drawls her words in the lisp Meg likes to copy. “I just don’t understand the blind faith you have for dear old Cas.”
And isn’t that the very picture of irony? A faithful demon and a faithless human inhabiting the same body. Someone somewhere out there must be laughing their ass off. Meg bets on Loki, if he’s still alive. It was the doom of everyone that ever crossed paths with the Winchesters, good or bad, ally or enemy, to kick the bucket early, often in horrible and gruesome ways.
Usually though, enemies tend to outlive allies. Meg wonders if that is the reason she’s still alive after all, because she has been toeing the line between slaughter and redemption since she met them. Soon her luck will run out, the demon knows, because the last years the balance has been tipping inevitably towards sainthood.
Fucking angels and their crazy noodles, with their penchant for poetry, Meg thinks to herself, not wanting to give the soul within more ammo.
"They’ll come. You heard Crowley’s lackeys. Someone’s been icing the diggers. They just need to pick up the trail, find the source." Meg repeats what Rachel has been hearing since Crowley learned about the crypts in varying spiels.
We just need a little time.
We’ll find a way to get free.
Crowley’s lackeys are stupid and someday soon they’re gonna make a mistake.
Clarence owes me.
Rachel doesn’t believe it and she wonders why Meg does. The Winchesters treat the demon like trash, granted, and for all they know Castiel is dead, either in the Levis’ take out or pounced on Purgatory, where Dean supposedly ended up after the battle.
"And what? You think they’re gonna save you? Please, but Cas is no Skywalker and you sure ain’t Princess Leia.”
Meg hates the way Rachel pronounces the angel’s name. A mockery of what Dumber baptized her crazy cloud hopper and she knows that’s exactly why the actress uses it. The flutter of wings interrupts any answer Meg may have and both stay still in hope and dread, while the demons outside scream murder. The smell of ozone filters under the bathroom door as the silence of death descends upon the seedy motel room. Someone throws open what must be the front door.
"Thanks for waiting." Is the next thing they hear, and isn’t that Moose’s voice?
"The hostage is in there." A monotone replies, and Meg stops breathing altogether. Not that a demon truly needs air.
Footsteps. And the door finally, finally opens.
"Aren’t you a little short for a Stormtrooper?"
It’s all the demon can conjure up in such short notice.
.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.
After the tearful reunion that never happened and the embarrassing moment of being carried bridal style in Gigantor’s arms after Team Free Will found out she wasn’t able to stand on her own, much less walk ("Wow! Look at those biceps! And to think you were inside him,” Rachel leers), the demon known as Meg sits cross-legged on the motel bed. Sam and Dean occupy a couple chairs in front of her while Castiel stands at her right, arms across his chest with the motel window at his back.
"So, I got to ask. Um…" Dean clears his throat. "What’s up with the hair?"
Sometimes, you just have to wonder at the perfect impression he does of Joey Tribbiani, Meg thinks.
"What?" he asks defensive when three pair of eyes land on him judging.
"Aww. Thanks for noticing, Dean, but this wasn’t my idea. It was Crowley’s. And it’s just another reason I want to stab him in the face."
"Wait a second." Something finally clicks into college boy’s head. You always know exactly when the piece finally fits the puzzle, because Sam’s posture gets a little straighter, he frowns a little deeper. "You’ve been telling Crowley the location of Lucifer’s crypts."
"Ding, ding, ding! And we have a winner!" Rachel quips and Meg entertains the fleeting thought of sending her to sleep now that it won’t send her into an anaphylactic shock.
"What can I say?" Meg takes pride. "I needed a break from the constant torture. And I did visit them all during my time with Yellow Eyes. But don’t worry. I haven’t exactly been giving them the Glengarry leads."
The demon waits for the angel to figure that one out. It doesn’t happen.
"Easy there girl, if you wag your tail harder it might break." Is the running commentary from the actress and Meg clenches her teeth in annoyance and pain.
"You mean you’ve been lying to them?" asks Sam.
"I just get them in the ballpark," Meg explains. "Enough time’s passed and enough’s changed that they bought it."
"Why lie?" Dean again with the hard questions.
Rachel scoffs.
"Buy myself some time, dummy," Meg says with disdain. "Try to find a way to get free."
"Wait- So…" Sam interjects. "A bunch of innocent people died so you could… buy yourself some time?"
Meg stares for a moment, wondering if King Boy is actually asking what he just asked for real. First and foremost, Meg is a demon, First Class as Rachel put it not even an hour ago, and she’s always stayed true to herself, feeling that she owes it as one of the last Ancients topside. And yeah, she’s done horrible, horrible things, but it’s in her nature to love chaos and violence.
"Hi, I’m Meg. I’m a demon." Scorn drips from her voice.
"So, what have they found?" Castiel asks trying to defuse the situation.
"Bupkis. Every crypt’s been one Al Capone’s vault after another. And on top of that, someone kept picking up the trail and icing demons. I’m guessing that was you, Castiel." A little smile for the angel. "But Crowley just keeps sending more. He’s hell-bent on finding that Angel Tablet."
"Woah, woah, woah! What the hell was that?!" Rachel freaks out, spooked enough to drag Meg’s attention on the inside.
They stand barefooted in the sand, facing each other on what looks like the outside of the shack by the beach Rachel used to live in when she moved to Los Angeles. Perpetual dawn paints the sky, interrupted only by the rectangle that shows the interior of the motel room and its inhabitants through the meatsuit’s eyes, high definition and all. It always amazes her the scenery Rachel paints in her inner mind, the attention to detail and sensory overload she experiences while a totally different conversation goes on the outside.
This was the day I first possessed her, Meg notes, eyeing with disgust the summer dress she ditched first thing after taking over the actress’ body.
Long ago, the demon decided it was good to have an extra pair of eyes watching out for trouble, and it really has paid off, has even saved her skin in multiple occasions.
"What did you see?" Meg asks, glad she can multitask as a different conversation goes on outside.
“Castiel. He totally flashed out of here for a second, didn’t you notice?" Rachel begins pacing in the process of leaving a perfect hole in the sand, eyes never leaving the angel.
Meg turns, arms crossed over her chest with a thoughtful frown, not even questioning Rachel’s claim as the demon lets her consciousness go back to her front row view.
"Well, this is news to me, as well." Castiel says when Dumb and Dumber squint at him and fuck it if that isn’t a poor lie. "Demons I interrogated, they must have been lying about their true intentions."
"Really? ‘Cause I saw you ‘Zero Dark Thirty’ that demon. You were more than persuasive," Dean accuses.
"Seems I’m not the only one doubting angel face," Rachel muses.
Meg decides they’ve been dilly dallying too long. They can bitch at each other someplace else, the farther the better, and if she gets a moment alone with the angel, she might even make him spill the beans about his flashing absences. “You’re both missing the point. I lied to them, which means they’re digging in the wrong place, but not for long. They’ll be back here soon. So, who’s up for fleeing?”
"She’s right." Sam nods, always the voice of reason. "We need to find those crypts before they do. Meg, you’re the only one who’s been there."
Then again, his one track mind always surfaces at the worst possible moment.
"We need your help." Castiel turns his puppy eyes towards Meg and Rachel screeches incensed while the demon sighs resignedly.
"Any of you dummies got a map?" she chuckles despondently.
.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.
"There. That’s where the crypt was." Meg points at the miniature town model found in someone’s basement, with little sandbags hanging over the marks the demon has lied about before.
It reminds her of the way Azazel used to map his children way back when the first steps towards the apocalypse were taken and she feels a little melancholy.
"What’s there now?" Sam asks.
"Do I look like Google to you?" She almost growls, suddenly angry. "None of these buildings were here way back in the day. Figure it out, genius. Is there any booze in this dump?"
Meg walks away before she depresses herself.
.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.
"He lied to us."
Meg eavesdrops on Dean and Sam in the basement while sitting above their heads on the living room couch, open bottle of alcohol in hand, glad for demon’s acute senses that let her hear even the little click-clacks of Sam working on the laptop.
"Yeah, maybe. I can kind of understand why. I mean, an Angel Tablet?" Sam chuckles. "If the Demon Tablet can shut the Gates of Hell, what can the Angel Tablet do?"
"These wounds have festered." Castiel says as he wraps gauze around one of her wrists, calling her attention back to the angel’s first aid.
Meg tunes out the boys, leaving the task to Rachel. The shutting of the Gates of Hell bit worries her, but no sense in panicking without getting more intel. Meg smirks down into blue eyes. “You really do know how to make a girl’s nethers quiver, don’t you?”
She’s cleaned up a little bit, but still feels in dire need of a long luxurious bubble bath, which won’t happen until she ditches the cavalry. Dean doesn’t trust the demon without adult supervision.
"I am aware of how to do that. Although it doesn’t usually involve cleaning wounds." Castiel answers with a little smirk of his own and Rachel pretends she’s gagging. It always shocks her a little how warmly the angel gazes at the demon though.
"Why are you so sweet on me, Clarence?" Apparently, it also amazes the demon herself, though Meg’s not waiting for a love confession.
"I don’t know," Castiel answers, intent on healing even a little of her wounds, though she doesn’t know why. It looks to her as if he has found peace on the task and it actually makes Meg quiver in the not sexy way. "And I still don’t know who Clarence is."
"Would it kill you to watch a movie, read a book?" Meg takes a swig directly from the bottle trying to distract herself. Nothing good can come out of this, whatever this is, they have going on. If her Father or her God still walked the Earth, she would be brimstone.
"A movie, no. But a book with the proper spells-yeah, it could, theoretically, kill me."
"You know, you’re much cuter when you’re shutting up." Meg hints, sharing a look with Choir Boy, so it surprises her a little when Rachel asks instead, "So, which Cas are you now? Original make and model or crazy town?”
"I’m just me."
"So, your noodle’s back in order?" Meg takes over, finally sending Rachel to sleep, lest exposes herself.
Castiel nods. “Yeah, my… noodle remembers everything. I think it’s a pretty good noodle.”
Meg should not find endearing the paused way in which Castiel speaks or the total lack of filter his speech has in all its literal glory, but his voice has always had a soothing quality that makes her look upon him with fondness.
"Really?" She asks. "You remember everything?"
Castiel squints at her, a smile almost but not quite forming on his ridiculously pink lips. “If you’re referring to the pizza man… Yes, I remember the pizza man. And it’s a good memory.”
Meg picks up Sam’s voice again. “Here goes. All right. According to this, the crypt has to be below an abandoned building.”
"Good times." It’s Dean’s prompt answer as he hums distracted. "You really think we can trust, uh, Megstiel?"
"No," Sam replies. "But what choice do we have?"
Rachel butts in again, "Megstiel. Really? Is that the best they can come up with?"
Meg frowns wondering if she’s really that weak not to have complete control over the human or if Rachel has picked up from her demon memories a way to bypass her authority. Wouldn’t be the first time.
Possession is, after all, an intimate business, but what most demons and humans involved don’t care to learn is that it works both ways if enough time passes and there’s enough acclimatization. The line where demon begins and human ends blurring sufficiently to create a new being, powered by an unsoiled soul reactor that lets any Hellbound overcome pesky situations, like demon traps, holy water and even exorcisms without the aid of sigils and incantations.
Soon Meg and Rachel will become one. The demon can feel it in her core and she wonders what her host’s opinion of it all is. Surely Rachel must have picked it up, because sometimes when Meg lets her take over she has full control of her demon powers.
Angel and Demon both lapse in silence with Castiel staring at her, just not quite being there with her. If Meg can pick up the boys’ voices, it’s guaranteed he can too, what with his Celestial being status, but the doubts of his charges surely hurt him on a deeper level. Meg almost feels sorry he’s listening into the tittle-tattle going on behind his feathery butt.
Meg takes another drink, suddenly willing to distract him, “You ever miss the Apocalypse?” she asks, and gets a small smile in return with knowing sad eyes focusing on her.
"No. Why would I miss the end of times?"
"I miss the simplicity. I was bad. You were good. Life was easier. Now it’s all so messy." Another gulp. "I’m kind of good, which sucks. And you’re kind of bad-which is actually all manner of hot." She can’t help but flirt, taking a long shot at his expense. "We survive this, I’m gonna order some pizza and we’re gonna move some furniture around. You understand?"
"No, I-I -"
Meg smiles suggestively, eyebrow cocked.
"Wait- actually… Yes, I -"
"All right. Let’s roll campers."
As always Team Fuck Fate’s President and his Vice march into the room interrupting, though the way Meg and Castiel stare at each other must scare them away, because the brothers leave as abruptly as they entered.
"I guess I’m gonna go powder my nose." Meg announces and swallows a moan when her wounds bother her, a year of torture catching up on every crevice and surface after a little respite, which always makes it worse.
Castiel straightens his slouch, prepared with arms open to catch her if she falls.
"Thousands of hell years too late." Rachel mutters just to antagonize.
Meg grunts at her and is glad Castiel is not a gentleman in any sense of the word.
It would be too much to take for her demon pride.
.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.
She washes the blood off her face in the bathroom, water turning pink in the aftermath.
"We need to talk," Rachel speaks up.
Meg can see her pacing in the reflection of the mirror at the corner of her eye, biting her nonexistent nails, because the demon knows it’s only an illusion her host’s awareness paints for her when she feels too suffocated by her own mind. Meg turns towards her with arms and ankles crossed, hip on the sink.
"What about?"
"You know what," Rachel snarls in response, and here it’s all the answer Meg ever needed for her question about the actress noticing the gradual merger of their enterprises.
Part of Meg, the almost nonexistent human tattered grace-cleansed chunk she now guards jealously inside vines of thorns and smoke, regrets the choice her host has made. She still remembers a time when the actress was too cowed and too disgusted by Meg’s choices to be bothered. She also remembers the fraught girl willing to risk everything in her desperation to not fade away into nothing, the one that summoned her after being freed once, willing to fight the odds of a degenerative illness with demon possession. But here they are now, too tired to run and too weak to escape.
This is the scene that won’t make it into the Director’s Cut, Meg knows. There are no spectators on the edge of their seats, only two souls standing on different steps at the stairs on damnation’s door. The worry the human exudes is a continuous prickling to her true form, encasing it and surrounding it in a soul bubble, as if trying to heal and protect the demon. It’s almost warm, but it’s been so long since anything has made Meg feel, that the sensation reminds her only of being pushed into a wall, head tilted to the point of discomfort, lips locked to those of a Holy Vessel, and feeling so utterly clean for the first time ever.
Her hands tremble as she stands there staring at Rachel stare at the demon balling her fists, willing her to do something.
Forgive me for I have sinned… Meg begins the prayer for confession but then doesn’t even know why she’s asking forgiveness. Or from whom. God, Lucifer, Azazel, Castiel… the list could go on and on. There’s no way to minimize any of the terrible things she’s done, either as a demon or as an unsoiled soul on Earth, living her days as a thief and a liar. Nor does Meg want to.
The demon knows all her sins intimately and has made her bed to lie on, knows that in this story arc she was cast as the antagonist, murdering Winchester allies for the sake of a legendary gun, manipulating John Winchester for no other reason but because it was fun, torturing Dean’s soul in his brief stint downstairs, forcing herself on Sam in every possible way, ultimately possessing him and using his body to come very close to raping Jo Harvelle, only to then release the hellhounds that finally killed the girl and her Momma some time after. Though if it’s any consolation, Meg wasn’t actively trying to kill them. Collateral damage and all that.
That said, she’s a simple creature and once she gives her loyalty she gives it completely. Meg might have fallen for an angel, but what truly shifted things for her was seeing Dean Winchester’s love for his family through the eyes of his little brother. Meg knows that as time passes things shift over, and as once she told the Hardy Boys, people grow, they mature and the respect the demon now has for the hunters’ and Castiel’s cause is more than enough to convert her, whatever the end game.
"This is suicide."Rachel announces, reading the thoughts Meg has let her.
"I am a demon." Meg says, suddenly tired of having to remind everyone of it. "I’ve played my part on this show as the best demon chick. Ever. I knew I was gonna get killed off eventually."
If I could, I would give you your freedom, Meg does not say.
It’s not only the sigils and bindings carved into skin and bones, but a link much more profound that keeps the demon inside the meatsuit and the human soul alive. If Meg could compare it to something, it would be the bond Dean and Castiel share. Angels weren’t the only ones that could raise a Hellbound from perdition after all.
"I’m not gonna let you die," Rachel swears before disappearing into the recesses of Meg’s mind, giving her a headache.
The pounding on the door cuts Meg’s sigh short and the next thing she sees is Dean’s frown searching the small bathroom with distrust. “Hurry it up.”
The demon does the only thing she’s ever known how to do.
Meg follows.
.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.
Meg can feel the undercurrent of distrust and betrayal the three men she finds herself in the Impala with radiate, as everyone tries actively not to look into each other’s eyes. She could cut the tension with an angel blade, not that it’d help the kiss and make up process. The boys’ still waters running deep under the bridge are too full of crap for recycling.
The demon shares the backseat with Castiel, flanking Boy King’s side as the angel flanks the unused Sword of Michael, each watching outside their own window how the scenery passes by. There’s no sound but the purring the vehicle makes and the demon remembers the only two times she ever drove Dean’s baby. Smoothest rides she ever had. For all his shortcomings, the hunter sure knew how to care for his wheels.
The hum and vibration of the car makes her drowsy, suddenly longing to cuddle into the upholstery and let it sooth her into leathery oblivion. Maybe a little shut eye will help the healing process on her body.
“Pull over.”
Meg hears the words distantly and it takes her a moment to realize it’s her voice. Or to be more precise Rachel’s voice.
“Now!”
"And why would I do that?" Dean looks back with a sneer through the rearview mirror and finds something different about the demon’s eyes, a kind of urgency, though he cannot pinpoint exactly what.
She looks almost wild, desperate with bright feverish eyes, sweaty, almost translucent skin and red, red, red bitten lips stretched in a grimace. Her arms hug her midsection as if in agony, and for a brief moment Dean feels pity, memories of demonic torture buried inside his mind resurfacing as if it was only yesterday.
“Because if you don’t, you’ll have to clean up my guts from your precious," is the snarled answer. It makes the hunter blanch, eyes wide in fear and disgust. Dean pulls over and the woman is out before he even puts Baby in park with a parting "Don’t follow me!”, as her shadow blends with those of the overgrown shrubbery and stunted trees at the side of the road.
Dean shares a look with Sam before killing the engine and three car doors open simultaneously as the men step outside; crunching gravel at their feet the only sound accompanying the retching going on behind the stump of a dead tree a few meters away. The smell of blood and sulfur permeates the air and Sam takes a step forward before Castiel stops him with a shake of the head.
"Give her a minute."
Dean opens his mouth with the clear intention to argue, but the angel freezes him with another look.
"She’s too weak from captivity and torture. If she was planning to run, Meg could have done it before. Just… give her a minute."
.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.
Rachel is on her knees in front of the log of what used to be a Mighty Oak Tree back in the days, marking the edges of the Lost Orchard, hiding her from the view of the Winchesters and their pet angel. The wood is barely alive after the river’s hundred year’s flood wiped the nearby town forever ago, but the runes that can still be visible in its dry bark, if you know to look for them, still have traces of magic left. Enough for one last spell, though she needs to re-carve them if she wants them to be of any use. Splinters get under her nails, bloodying her fingers. The stone she uses as a tool is too blunt for carving and she wishes she had lifted a knife from the hunters.
Rachel doesn’t have much time.
.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.
Meg can almost feel how her borrowed heart beats like crazy, as she finds her smoky demonic self trading places with the soul whose body she’s taken for a ride, trapped inside a cage of white energy in a dark and limitless space.
"What do you think you’re doing?!" She growls at the projection of Rachel that appears on the other side of the thick bars that encase her.
Her hands hiss and burn as Meg grips the beams, sizzling at the purity of the human’s soul. The demon would be impressed if she hadn’t been so stupid as to let herself be trapped by the girl she thought subdued.
.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.
Rachel feels both cold and hot. She doesn’t even remember what it feels like to breathe after so long without a body. The air that enters her lungs burns like cheap tequila. Her lips are covered in blood and bile and tears, as she desperately convulses and hacks in agony, in the aftershocks of a dying tortured body, while she chants in a tongue long forgotten, fingers painting sigils on the earth with blood and vomit and herbs Meg had stashed into her clothes after scouring the digger’s house for booze.
.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.
"Saving you," Rachel offers.
She’s the picture of Holy Revelation, so angelic and righteous in her plan to seize the creature that has possessed her for years now. Meg feels even more stupid for having shared so much of her demonic knowledge.
They both can feel the tremors of the body outside this ‘Realm of the Inner Mind’ Rachel has constructed over time, dying without the devil’s essence to puppeteer it along.
"You’re just gonna get yourself killed."
.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.
Endurance. Triumph. Strength. Power. Dominion. Prosperity. Liberator.
Rachel mutters the name of each of the runes she re-carves, borrowing strength from them.
There is power in names, she remembers Meg telling her once. Actually, that is the reason why the demon she hosts guards hers zealously, though the name she’s stolen holds more power over her than Meg would like to admit. Curse the Winchesters.
The spell Rachel casts is an old one, from long before witches began channeling the power from Ancient Demons, even before Azazel twisted magic as old as time to cloak humans with it in darkness, corrupting mankind with the heavenly secrets that led them into sin. Though she has tweaked it to only borrow the power from the demon she now tries to protect, so as to not give away Meg’s location. Rachel hopes.
Guardian.
The sound of thunder resounds in the distance, called forth by the spell as the wind spikes. Rachel can only pray for Castiel not to stop her, because it is too much to ask that he does not notice the gathering power. And what does he think of it? The human wonders. As an Angel of the Lord he must feel the tendrils of magic, and what does he make of it all?
Sacrifice.
"Sacrifice." Rachel repeats, this time in English, feeling the power travel through her veins, flinging aside any thought of Castiel as she lets fall a lit match into the little mound she’s formed with blood and herbs.
.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.
Death. It’s been a long time since Rachel thought about it and she’s surprised to find that it no longer paralyzes her with fear and impotence as it did once upon a time.
"Well, considering your tendency towards suicidal missions, I didn’t think this would be very different." Rachel tells the demon and her unresponsiveness scares the creature of darkness in a way she cannot explain.
Who’s this? Meg wonders. Where’s the girl willing to sacrifice everything for the sake of survival?
"I am a soldier." The demon retaliates. "I know how to get out alive of pesky situations, but you- Without me you don’t have any chance at all."
"Really?" Rachel drawls, cocking an eyebrow. "Because lately your behavior has been completely irrational. You call me suicidal, but what about you, Meg? What about your disregard of everything but the cause you serve? You are so willing to sacrifice everything for a Fallen Angel, always a Fallen Angel. But when are you going to understand? Your love, your loyalty… it also deserves sacrifice."
"Meg, you are worthy of sacrifice."
.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.
Smoke dribbles slowly down her mouth, mixing with blood and saliva, in a soft, wet drizzle, as flakes of charcoal as big as full-grown snowflakes surround her body, thick and dense as fog up a river, cruelly pinching her toes and fingers and eyes and mouth and every other nerve-end. It makes Rachel feel weightless inside an ether sky of black smoke, miasma all around her, as if she were up in a balloon inside a storm, hanging in the misty clouds waiting for thunder to strike.
I should be afraid, Rachel thinks. I am fucking crazy.
As once upon a time Rachel was paid to be. Paid to believe she was someone else, living in a completely false reality to make-believe people it was real to the best of her ability.
But it is also kind of like swimming out to the sea. She remembers someone telling her once. You have to leave enough energy to swim back, and sometimes you get scared you’ve swum too far.
"And I’ve swum too far." Rachel knows, because all she feels now is the drowning peace found in purpose. For the first time, the human truly understands Meg and her willingness to serve a cause, to give yourself over so it orders your life.
She whimpers and collapses into a fit of coughing, only for her spine to straighten itself in an electrifying spam, head tilted back in a painful angle as her mouth opens in a silent scream. The wind whistles as the darkness of the demon she contains climbs up to the sky in a vortex of smoke so fine it disguises itself with the night and the fog flanking the highway.
The first raindrops fall from the heavens. The storm is above her.
.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.
Silent tears fall down the cheeks of the demon. In all her existence, no one had ever told her she was worthy of anything and it’s ridiculous to feel like this, so overwhelmed from the words of a puny human. She didn’t notice when she fell down, squatting from useless knees, looking up into Redemption.
"Goodbye, Meg." Rachel bids as her silhouette begins to dissolve, leaving the demon alone.
There’s a moment of quietness, of incredulity, soon replaced by the rage of the grieving. Meg’s eyes go black as her stolen appearance turns demonic, horns sprouting from her head as her locks become thin cutting wires. Her once pale skin turns black and chiseled with the remnants of charred brimstone, softness replaced by millions of fine tendrils of thorny vines. From her back appear two leathery wings, akin to those of a bat, which crackle once they touch the white cage containing her when trying to span to their full length. From her lower back sprouts a long thin tail, and at first sight her wings and tail appear naked, but on close inspection they are covered with minute deadly poisonous thorns as small as hairs.
Her nails turn to talons, sharp enough to pierce the coarse skin on her palms as her fists pound the beams trapping her, bleeding smoke and impotence while Meg screams and begs and swears for Rachel to let her out, for Rachel to not die.
"I’m not worthy!" Meg hollers into the abyss. Sweet Lucifer, she never was.
But no matter how much the demon wails and despairs, the human does not come back. Instead, Meg feels her essence being drained away and she howls angrily in a last ditch effort to keep it from leaking towards Rachel’s soul, encasing the light in darkness as the demon known as Meg is pushed back into hiding, deeper and deeper until all that’s left is the casing, her true name and cleansed remnants bare of its shield of smoke and thorns, caged by a human soul.
.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.
Rachel can hear Meg’s despair and even though she’s used to the growling pitch and tormented song of the damned, to the warped Enochian spoken by the Fallen Angels, it is painful to listen to the demon, once so proud a being, begging as the spell strips her bare of her power, whitewashing the outer layers of thorny vines as they untwist from Meg, only to wrap her human soul in darkness.
Her hurt body is surrounded by smoke, molecules loose enough as to form a cloud and for a moment Rachel fears the invocation is too much for her. Too much to keep control of it as the devil’s essence begins to dissipate, but just before it can something flickers, a light so white and wholesome that lends power to the spell as it finally comes together. The fog twirls with the human at its vortex, air picking up speed as rain pelts harder into her, lifting up her body until not even her tiptoes touch the ground.
Her once brown eyes turn black to the sclera as the expelled smoke is called back into the body, demonic power now hers to command. As sudden as it appears, the maelstrom recedes as Meg’s former meatsuit sags into the waiting arms of Castiel, who cradles her as a newborn, one hand supporting her back while the other is on her neck.
Rachel’s eyes flutter closed as she gasps for air as if for the first time, her body shaking in the aftermath of rebirth. Not entirely human, but not a demon either. The sensory overload chokes her a little as everything comes into painful focus, new senses adapting to the prevailing level of light to be able to see clearly, as Angelic Grace shushes her incoherent babble with small pinging flashes of pain.
The once human struggles to regain herself as the dark power thrums in her veins with a thirst for chaos, merging and soaking the soul with raw potential as darkness falls around her, in and out.
.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.
Broken sobs quiet as the pain of being torn apart recedes into oblivion, leaving Meg weak and tired. Her appearance turns once more human, her skin tender from the purity of her enclosure, stolen looks now defining her as her lids fall shut in sleepy blinks. As her true nature masks the soul she once confided in.
There’s a last shine from the outside as what feels like Grace soothes her to sleep, decreeing rest. And then nothing.
.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.
This is the absolute truth. The one no one never ever tells you, as growing up murders innocence.
Boys cry.
Cigarettes do kill.
Parents lie.
Boats sink.
Flowers die.
Life goes on.
With or without you.
Rachel comes to with a scream inside the Impala, making the vehicle veer into the other lane as rain pelts its surface and thunder strikes at the roadside, creating small fires that are soon snuffed out by the falling water. Her clothes are damp and smell faintly of ozone, but Rachel does not really notice as she begins to shake and spam.
Every memory Meg once buried with self-serving purpose start to weave its way through her mind and remind her painfully just who she is not. Terrifying flashes of torture and a sensation of drowning in flames and rivers of lava choke her, leaving an aftertaste of blood and ashes in her mouth.
She is a demon. She is not a demon. She has lost herself. She cannot remember what she was or what she is. All in her mind is rebirth, inside a cage of bones and blood and pain and fear. Hers. Not hers.
Shadows and smoke and eternal fire turn her to brimstone as she scrapes at her arms, feeling thorns instead of skin. The angel at her side traps her inside his arms, whispers in her ear in the Old Tongue as she struggles, fighting Hell as it unmakes her and remakes her into who she should be. Indescribable pain makes her want to run, hide, lay low. Survival instinct leads her into madness as torture shapes her into chaos and violence and pleasure. And finally, after centuries and eons her eyes open, black to the sclera. The human once known as Rachel stares into nothing, her body locked into a cramp as once again the pinpricks of Angelic Grace contain the devil’s essence into the meatsuit.
But none of it matters as Rachel waits to reawake fully in darkness.
.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.
The second time she comes to, Rachel’s alone inside the Impala, laying on its backseat while the Hardy Boys confer outside the car with the angel, no doubt about her. Her head hurts and her throat feels hoarse, just like after torture. The first swallow is painful as she clears it, reaching for the car handle.
Castiel is the first to notice as she opens the door, and as Rachel gets out, there’s a weak-kneed moment when her feet touch the ground that passes quickly, leaving her nauseous. Castiel squints at her pensively but does not offer assistance and for a second panic overwhelms her. Did it work? Is Castiel fooled? Or is he going to look through her and not see all the thorny pain that conforms Meg, but a puny human with delusions of a guardian?
A smirk paints her lips in default, and Castiel all but rolls his eyes at her when she steps towards them, glancing around, scouring her surroundings with a keen eye looking for trouble in the shadows. She’s acutely aware of how her perception has been amplified and although is not the first time she’s seen through devil’s eyes, it still leaves her breathless (and isn’t that something? That she is sure she needs to breath no more), exhilarated with sounds and smells and high image definition and sensations augmented tenfold.
The back-alley they stand in is littered with puddles, smelling of rain and leftover trash, as they fall into line without words, walking towards the abandoned warehouse that is their destination. Rachel’s not sure what Castiel told the boys about what happened miles back, but in true Winchester fashion not a word is mentioned.
It must be after midnight, Rachel gathers, and is not sure if she should be glad for the lack of witnesses or bitter about the complete lack of originality on the setting. The current of power running through her veins leaves her shaky, hands throbbing for release, craving blood and violence, so she puts them inside the back pockets of her jeans. Her steps are wobbly on the uneven ground as she clenches her teeth in endurance.
"So, this is it. Basement?" she asks in a drawl, because that is what’s expected of her. Of Meg. The demon. Not her.
There’s a little squabble over who should stay in detention while the rest of the group go on the Indiana Jones Adventure. It makes her (Rachel. My name is Rachel) feel like a teenager all over again, especially when Sam and Dean keep shutting her up with their drama, until it all boils down to Castiel being the voice of reason.
"No, you’re not." He tells the humans gravely. "Sam… You’re damaged in ways even I can’t heal. Dean’s right. You should stay here and protect Meg."
"Since when do I need protecting?" Rachel asks, because a demon does not need protection. She is what humans need protection from. Only she’s not a demon. She’s a human, right. An actress playing a demon. She’s Meg. They think she’s Meg.
"Since you were held captive and tortured for over a year," the angel glowers.
"Touché." Rachel is impressed.
"All right, we’ll be back." Dean says and that is that.
Castiel walks away while the hunter hands the demon-killing knife to his brother and follows his pet.
Cue awkward silence.
Sam clears his throat and opens his mouth as if to say something, but whatever it is dies in his tongue. With an exasperated sigh, he turns back towards the car and for a moment Rachel feels stranded. She looks at the fading backs of Castiel and Dean and then turns to Sam’s bulk shadowing over the Impala’s open trunk.
There’s nothing for her to do but sigh, though she doesn’t know if it’s from relief or resignation.
.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.
"Wait- so I took how many bullets for you guys, and you didn’t even look for me?" Rachel should feel betrayed. At least on Meg’s behalf, as she was once. Only not anymore.
Meg’s feelings superimpose hers in a way she hadn’t accounted for when casting the spell that cloaks her humanity. Only it’s more than that. Because she isn’t acting like Meg, she is Meg. She feels like Meg.
Sam and Rachel spray paint symbols and sigils on the doors, the boarded-up windows, the ground. As if that could save them. Then again, better safe than sorry.
"Like, once?" Rachel scoffs. "My hero."
Sam frowns, not quite a bitch face and not quite ashamed in his confession. If there’s a moment to ask, it’s now. After all, they owe Meg.
"What’s with all the ‘trial’ and ‘being damaged’ crap?" She asks.
"Look, no disrespect, but you haven’t exactly been the most, uh, trustworthy person in our lives, Meg."
"You’re not gonna tell me? Seriously?" Not that Rachel blames them. Meg. Meg doesn’t blame them. Rachel absolutely thinks she’s entitled to some thought now and again after all the crap Meg’s gone through in her body. "How am I not team Sam?"
Sam’s can rattles and hisses as he continues to spray paint. Rachel scoffs again. “Fine. Whatever it is, you okay dying over it?” Another shake, almost in defiance. “You don’t want to say, fine. But remember, I spent time in that walking corpse of yours. I know your sad, little thoughts and feelings.”
"That’s creepy," Sam says.
And, oh, if only he knew how so. Because now not only does Rachel have access to all of Meg’s little nooks and crannies, but all the memories of those Meg used to possess are crammed into her mind, filling her to the brim until she doesn’t know what is hers and what’s not.
"Here’s what I remember." Rachel taunts. "Deep down, in parts you never let see the light of day, you want to live a long, normal life away from creepy old things like me."
Sam scoffs. “I do. You know, I spent last year with… someone, and, um…” He looks away, almost like second thinking what he’s confessing and to whom, but continues. “Now I know that’s actually possible.”
"Wait. That’s how you spent your last year? With a chick? Lame." She mocks, though she can’t wait to hear more.
"You know, how about we just wait quietly?" And up go Sam’s hackles as his can rattles once more.
Silence again. Hell, but Rachel can’t stand it. After years of sharing your head with another, one gets antsy easily.
"What was her name?" she asks. Not that she cares, but the return of Sam’s bitch face rattles her the same way he rattles his can, fueling her desire to make him cringe. "You don’t even trust me with a name? Cut me, do I not bleed, Sam?"
A pause. He looks back at her briefly, the cogwheels in his head turning, squaring up just how much to trust, how much to tell.
"So, some chick actually got you off hunting, huh?" Rachel presses, feeling him cave in. "That’s one rare creature. Tell me-how’d you meet this unicorn?"
It doesn’t take long for the hunter to spill the beans. Rachel wonders how much Sam remembers of Meg possessing him so that he’s willing to share more of himself with a demon. Though after knowing Dean ‘no chick-flick moments’ Winchester, she knows the girl Sam carries inside dies a little more everyday from despondence.
"Wait- h-hold on." Rachel interrupts. "There’s one part I don’t understand. You hit a dog and stopped. Why?"
"That whole story, and that’s your takeaway?" Sam asks, almost offended.
"Oh, I heard the rest," she dismisses. "You fell in love with a unicorn. It was beautiful, then sad, then sadder. I laughed, I cried, I puked in my mouth a little." There’s a beat of silence, infinitesimal as it may be, that makes Rachel gulp. "And honestly, I kind of get it."
"Really?"
Really, Rachel thinks. After all, she was but a human in love with a demon in love with an angel in love with humanity. Now say it three times over, faster. She scoffs to herself, but her musings are cut short as her senses tingle.
"We’ve got company," she announces.
They turn towards two demons who charge at them, carrying clubs, killing intention clear as day. The fight is almost a laugh though. The demons are weak, bottom of the hierarchy, nothing but a distraction. Still, for two damaged bodies it is a little too much.
There are a lot of weak spots in her and Sam’s defenses, and the odds are marginally in their favor only thanks to the Demon Knife and the Angel Blade they parry with. Sam takes out one demon, but it leaves him unsteady and panting, sounding almost like he needs an inhaler as he stands and watches Rachel kill the second one only by the aid of gravity, as she lets herself fall onto the demon with his back on the ground, blade poised to kill.
Her lack of grace would make Meg chew her head off. Rachel pulls the blade out the dead body of the demon with a grunt, short of breath and full of pain, her back killing her as she looks around prepared for the next attack. In the distance, lightning flashes and thunder rumbles.
"I believe they’re playing my song." Crowley appears, gazing behind them with a condescending smirk. "Love what you’ve done with the place. You really think all that was gonna keep me out forever?"
"At least long enough for Dean and Cas to get the tablet and get out." Sam replies.
"Castiel. So, that’s who’s been poking my boys-and not in a sexy way." The King of Hell muses, almost to himself, before zeroing into the hunter. "Got a bone to pick with you, Moose. After what you did to my poor dog."
"You gonna talk us to death or get down to it already?" Rachel drawls, her blood pumping with adrenaline and a craving for murder, fueled by a year of repressed killing intent born from torture. Oh, has Rachel dreamed what she’d do to the prick.
"There’s my whore. I’m not here for my dearly departed, though. I’m here for the stone with the funny scribbles on it."
"That’s not gonna happen." Sam declares.
"Love it when you get all tough. Touches me right where my bathing suit goes." Crowley pulls out a shiny angel blade, but Rachel puts herself in between the hunter and demon.
"Go." She glances at Sam over her shoulder. "Save your brother…"
Sam’s indecision hardens into purpose and you always know the exact moment Sam makes a choice he doesn’t like but has to. His shoulders straighten in a tall erect posture, brows knitted in a frown, lips set in a grim line that hides clenched teeth, belied only by the movement of his jaw.
"…and my unicorn." She adds in Meg’s stead, because sure as Hell the demon won’t ever admit it, at least not out loud, even when all Meg does screams it. And because they need to know, need to understand why the devil would give everything up for a Fallen Angel. Always a Fallen Angel.
There’s a minuscule nod before Sam leaves, the sound of the warehouse door opening and closing marking his departure.
"Timon and Pumbaa tell you their big plan?" Crowley taunts. "Did they share that little chestnut with you? They mean to close the Gates of Hell, sweetheart. They mean to kill me and all the demons-you included."
Rachel scoffs back a laugh. “You had me at ‘kill you’ Crowley.”
Crowley strikes. It’s not much of a fight as an outlet for the King of Douchebaggery’s anger issues. Rachel is beaten and punched and kicked into the ground again and again and again and again, so she spends more time kissing the floor than on her feet. Tears of pain mix with the rivulets of blood painting her everything red.
Even so, Rachel lifts herself up in defiance once more, because if she’s going down, she will do so on her feet, not her knees. She doesn’t know how much time passes. Kind of hard to keep count when you’re being pummeled into a bloody pulp.
"I could beat on you for eternity." Crowley reaches down, grabbing her by the jacket when she tries to stand once more, pulls her up to look into his smarmy face.
"Take all the time you want, you pig." She might be weak, but demon bravado is a thing of beauty. She and Crowley look back at the sound of car doors opening, then closing. "No Cas in the back seat. Your stone is long gone."
Rachel takes the chance to stab her nemesis, but knows way before her blade reaches him that it’s the wrong angle, not enough strength in her lunge, not enough to make for a kill. Not enough. She’s too weak, too beaten, too resigned to really achieve Meg’s Cause.
"Aargh!" Crowley gasps as sparks fly and grabs the blade, glaring at her with more annoyance than pain. He rams back, his blade deadly in retaliation.
Rachel gasps as everything inside her ignites and warmth spreads all over her as Grace cleanses the smoke and mirrors she has cloaked herself with. Rachel always thought death was cold and it makes her wonder if it’s different because of the angel blade.
For a moment everything stops, and then Rachel is falling on her back. Slowly. Slowly, as if time itself was reticent to continue. The last sound Rachel hears are tires squealing as the Impala speeds away. Her eyes fall shut as a serene smile paints her lips when she draws her last breath.
Oblivion takes her.
.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.
Far away, as the day breaks in the horizon, Castiel sits on the third row from the back of a moving greyhound bus. He stares at the Angel Tablet in his hands, before he putting it inside a bag and closing the zipper. He gazes outside the window wondering what he’s going to do now.
Where is he going to go? What was he thinking, taking God’s Word and abandoning the only people that ever believed in him? That trusted him? That needed him?
… And where was Meg when he needed her?
The bus gets swallowed in the darkness of a tunnel.
.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.
Farther away, in a cold hospital room, a heart monitor keeps a steady beat, only interrupted by the rise and fall of the chest of its only occupant.