(no subject)
There is nothing but black for so long that, it seems infinite like space; except Meg knows exactly where she is. She is floating in the black nothingness of death, in her true form. She always thought she would eventually die for good, especially since it is her second time around. It is an improvement at least; no one is putting her on the rack or making her torture souls…even though it is a bit boring.
But something pulls her out of it, the brightest light grabs a hold of her and she can’t run from it. She is forced back into her vessel, somewhere in a small shack. She has stopped taking death seriously ages ago, so she cleans up her injured vessel, and hits the road.
She isn’t necessarily over eager to march back into the Winchesters’ camp, especially since she has no idea how long she has been down. She needs information. She can’t trust demons, because Crowley is who-knows- where. Even calling Castiel would mean putting herself on the angels’ radar. She needs someone with connections, but someone who knows nothing about her.
That is easier said than done. The quest for answers has often led Meg down a bloody road, which is usually something she can do with ease. Before him, it was as easy as filling a fancy cup with a stranger’s blood, but now she’s team Winchester. Fighting for free will and all. Falling for an gave her a conscience, and that is something she really can’t deal with.
So she needs blood, but it can’t be just anyone’s. She’ll have to find someone with questionable morals, then. The type the Winchesters have no problem killing.
She’s in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by endless woods and the occasional dirt road. She is exhausted: her vessel is sore from being rebuilt, it has gone from decaying to open for business means that every muscle ached aches with movement. “Come on,” she sighs as she realizes that she’s walking in circles. Every turn she makes leads her back to the same creek.
She is not going to spend the rest of her life (this one) in these woods, so she searches for the lowest branch on the nearest tree. It will take everything out of her, but if she can make it to the top she might at least find the road. And civilization if she is lucky.
The ache of muscles and the stretch of skin make her feel almost human as she climbs to higher branches. Every other demon would leave their vessel, and find a stronger one, but she has been in this vessel for too long. She’s developed, ugh, feelings, associated with it. She isn’t sure if the girl’s soul is in this body anymore. Part of her wants her to be in heaven, but she knows it’s probably more likely that she corrupted the soul a long time ago.
Meg leans against the body of the tree, with eyes closed and promises it will only be a second before she resumes her climb. The wind howls against the canopy of the trees as the sun sets and the woods come alive with nocturnal energy.
The predators of the day rest in their homes as the new monsters resume their hunt. She can hear the hooting of owls and the scurrying of their prey, but she has no fear; she is the strongest predator these woods have ever contained.
Or she thinks she is, at least. But soon the woods are full of noises that are all too familiar: human noises. She has a keen ear for them after decades of making them her prey. For all her strength, all her power, it is hidden in the body of an injured, young woman. She is truly a wolf in sheep’s clothing, with all her power hidden under skin.
The voices are close, and as the humans find their way through the forest, Meg listens for the different voices and footfalls, and is sure it is a large group. It is clear now it is not the time to sleep. At any rate altercations with humans can work to her benefit. She is aware of the angel blade in her leather jacket as she prepares for battle.
Except they aren’t human. Once, perhaps, these people were, well, people, but that time has long since passed. She doesn’t need a reason to kill these things. Team Winchester rules dictate that only humans get second chances. Meg never did play by the rules before she defected to their side. She once did things for the fun of it, the rush of a fight, but now the rush of adrenaline feels foreign.
They are vampires. Meg doesn’t need her years of experience to figure that out (though she’s a little worried that she didn’t smell it on them before now). The groups of men are covered in blood, fresh blood, enough to fill a tub; and then some. They look at her like she is prey. That is all she needs. She grips her blade without hesitation, and she can’t blame herself for the grin that spreads across her face.
“It’s a feast,” The smallest man rejoices, his arms in the air. His friend elbows him, trying to knock the naivety out of him.
“Sorry boys,” Meg drawls. It’s not a challenge, because she does not see them as opponents. Her confidence radiates off of her. She may be rusty, but she still has centuries under her belt.
Monsters used to quake at the word demon, but now demons are too common. But Meg is old school. She spent centuries in Hell. She has her hands in all the schemes that broke the gates. She has no problem educating a naïve group of vampires. She considers her options. She’s really not interested in expending the energy on killing all of the vampires, but she needs blood. She’ll scare away as many as she can and do what she has to with those that are stupid enough to stick around.
She stands her ground, waiting. The largest, the leader, watches her, his eyes tracking her subtle motion as she prepares for a fight. They both tire of waiting. Meg twists at their insides, it isn’t as fulfilling as hand to hand combat, but it is far more painful.
The leader falls to his knees in agony. He coughs up the blood of his latest victim. His supporters run towards Meg, but she throws them back with ease. The leader loses faith as his supports prove an easy match. He flees the second Meg releases her grip.
The smallest one is abandoned, stuck in the center of the battle field. He looks at her with nothing, but fear in his eyes. He is completely pathetic and she rolls her eyes as she strolls towards him. She knows his type: he only picks fights with the weak, and for some reason this infuriates Meg.
“I’m going to make you bleed,” Meg threatens; she relaxes her grip, he has to stay alive if she wants information.
“Fu-fuck you,” He stammers, he’s shaking. He’s pathetic, his very stance inspires mercy; but he has never offered it, so why should she?.
“Do not tempt me,” Meg says, forming a fist; applying as much pressure on his heart as she can without killing him, “I haven’t killed anyone in a long time, and I do enjoy killing so very much.” He screams with intensity that shakes the whole forest.
“What do you want to know? Please-please just-just don’t kill me, I’ll tell you anything,” He begs her. A few years ago she would have laughed. She almost does, but she doesn’t forget why she is doing this.
“Tell me everything, demons, angels, the Winchesters, everything,” Meg demands.
“And you’ll let me go?” He begs, full of hope.
“Sure,” Meg says with a smile, and that’s all it takes for him to cough up everything he knows. The Winchesters don’t hunt anymore, at least not together. Hell has no king; all the angels lost their wings. It’s a lot to take in; every piece of her world has changed somehow.
“What about Castiel? Anything on him?” Meg needs this; she allows herself that small comfort.
“Last I heard he was dead,” He mocks her, as if he knows that information would hurt her.
She forces her hand through his chest, searching for the beating organ. He screams but doesn’t die. Vampires need to be decapitated. He laughs as if she doesn’t know this.
She places the blade in her leather jacket. Her hands wrap around his neck, tearing the skin on his neck as she squeezes. Blood splatters over her, the main artery in his neck violently ejecting all the blood from his body. She can taste the bitterness of his blood as she throws his head as far away as possible.
“Fuck,” She says as she cups the squirting liquid. She kneels on the forest floor over the corpse as she whispers into hands.
A voice calls back, but it is a broken call.
“I need a list of all the hunters in the area,” Meg says into her hands.
The voice speaks louder this time, replying with, “Who is the true ruler of Hell?”
“Lucifer? Azazel? Sam Winchester a few years back, it changes quite often you’re going to have to be more specific,” Meg remarks.
The voice responds with a list of hunters and locations. The closest hunters are all too familiar for her liking. There is a girl that sounds harmless on the list,
“Charlie Bradbury is near here?”
“Yes.”
Meg spills the blood on the forest floor, shaking the blood off of her hands with mild disgust. She follows the foot prints of her previous prey. Blood means people, and people mean civilization. She stays alert as she follows the trail. Eventually she finds the road, with a sign that reads Maine.
Meg walks along the road, trying to piece together a plan. The world she knew doesn’t exist anymore. That information did nothing but make her want to flay him alive. It’s distracting her. She needs allies; focusing on a flimsy plan, she ventures further into the United States.
“Charlie Bradbury, where are you hiding?” Meg asks into the wind, venturing further down the highway.