Tag to 5.16 and 5.17. Warnings for sex and violence and Castiel having a breakdown.

ALSO these are short drabbles, each corresponding to a single item on the list, not full on oneshots. Please keep that in mind!

He's carried the list around in his pocket for a very long time.

Its a simple list really, just seven words written with a pencil he found in the pocket of Jimmy Novak's trench coat. He can't quite remember when he moved the list into the inner pocket of the trench coat and forgot about it, but he finds it when he is halfway through drinking the liquor store. When the liquor's stopped burning and the ache in his heart has lessened thanks to the fog. He's reaching into his pocket thinking he'll lay a few bills onto the counter just for the sake of what humans do, even if a few bills won't cover the cost of the store and the owner is laying dead thanks to a fight Castiel attributes to the squabbling of Angels and Demons. The liquor store crackles with it and he finds it both amusing and tragic that he feels comforted by the familiar sting.

He's halfway through the last bottle of Jack Daniel's in the store when he decides to pay. A quick search of his pockets and he comes up with two crumpled bills that he vaguely remembers a lady handing him when he paid for his burger binge during famine's influence, the cell phone with the annoying, invisible lady who tells him things he does not understand or want to hear and the list. He knows he's drunk when his foggy mind fails to make heads or tails of the list. So he polishes off the last of the bottle, moves onto the tequila section and sits down to figure it out. He drinks the liquor store like he does everything else. In a methodical, orderly fashion. And Dean is always going on about not mixing liquor so he figures he is still following some kind of rule.

He has to squint and then open his eyes wide to bring the words into focus. His handwriting is terrible at best but he knows he wrote the list right after he dropped to earth. The list is a reminder as much as anything else but it hasn't exactly done its job. He's long forgotten the list and all that it is supposed to represent and now as he looks at it and tries to recall the hopeful angel who wrote it with shaky hands, he finds he cannot. He can barely think of what the angel who wrote that would think of his future self. No wings, no heaven, just a broken soul sitting sprawled on the floor of a liquor store that's more than three quarters to empty now. It takes more effort than he think it should to find a pencil in the mess of the counter but he manages. With shaking hands, he smoothes the list out and bends over it, looking at the words that have been scrawled there and considering them. Catching his lip in his bottom teeth, he places the pencil's tip to the paper and draws a shaky line through one.


He looks around the liquor store for confirmation at the sin. He's been very gluttonous here. He puts one of the two crumpled bills on the counter and shoves the other in his pocket along with the cell phone, the pencil and the folded list. He doesn't try to justify his actions or explain them. He just enjoys the fog of his head as he fumbles with how he is going to continue to destroy himself--if that is even possible. He's a creation of God--one twice over now--but that doesn't matter to him anymore. He's a creation of God, but if his creator doesn't give a flying fuck then why the hell should he?

Before the hour is out he staggers away from the liquor store leaving behind only a few spilled drops and a clatter of empty glass bottles that fall as he upends a display case on his way out.

He's not the first drunk person to stagger into a church.

Nor will he be the last.

Its just after an evening mass, one that was undoubtably full of sinners hoping for redemption but instead of feeling the love and devotion Castiel just feels pissed off. He means to teleport into the church but he winds up in the rose bushes outside instead. Drunken teleportation is just as ill-advised as drunken everything else. So he drops into the rose bushes, rolls to the side, gets to his feet and staggers into the church throwing the doors open and making the kind of entrance that Winchesters are infamous for. Though he's pretty sure that he's the first to interrupt a devotional service. A short time ago he would have stopped them for trying to do it but now he finds himself doing it all the same. The stink of human and sin is in the air but the church is practically deserted except for the few devotees who have stayed to pray.

Castiel watches them intently. He's seen Sam pray, in spite of all that's been done to him and he's begun to see Dean do it as well--though the elder brother does it with distaste and only in the most desperate of situations. Still it is something and Castiel was once proud of the Hunter for praying at all. Once when he thought someone gave a rats ass about prayers. But there's no one in Heaven who cares, except maybe Joshua, but even he's preoccupied with God. Castiel staggers over to the nearest pew and all but drops next to the woman with her hands clasped and her eyes closed tight. She is devout and perfect and Castiel hates her for it. He wants to know how she can still believe and before he can stop himself he tells her.

"He's not listening, you know," he tells her, his eyes locked on the figure of Jesus in his final moments of agony, "he hasn't been up there for a while."

"That's okay," she says lowering her hands and looking at him with a smile that nearly breaks his heart, "God is everywhere and he forgives us all."

She says it so earnestly that it makes him want to vomit.

He barely makes it outside before he does.


Vomiting outside is his last act of respect towards a God that doesn't care anymore. Its disgusting and disturbing that he can do it at all and as his throat burns with the acid of a stomach that should be empty, he realizes that he's not sure who he hates more:

Himself for his lack of devotion.

God for taking it from him.

The woman in the church who still believes in a way Castiel's sure he'll never be able to again.

As he staggers off he decides it doesn't much matter. He's still drunk and at the end of the day he hates everything now.

He runs into her when he's staring at a whore house.

While he's shooting himself in the foot he figures he might as well go all the way. It makes sense that demons hang outside whore houses but he's still slightly surprised that its her all the same. She's not a whore, of that he's sure. The jeans, the tank top, the scar that he sees tracing her neck, all of it means that she's too imperfect to work at a joint even as low brow as this. She's leaning on the wall outside, eyes closed as though savoring what goes on inside. He's walking a bit better now but his landing is still anything but perfect and the wide smile that lights up her face tells him just how terrible his state is.

"You look like shit," she throws at him.

"You look worse," he snaps back.

"Ouch," she says with an arrogant flip of her hair, "what? God no longer have use for his little perfect solider?"

"That would be more infuriating if it did not come from the mouth of a whore that even Lucifer couldn't find a use for."

Anger makes her beautiful as her body reacts. Her cheeks flush, her brows slant and he can practically hear the pound of her heart as she glares angrily at him before her features smooth as she smiles. He watches the reactions and enjoys them a little too much, even for his own befuddled understanding. She walked forward and he waits for her until she close enough that he can see the individual lashes on her eyelids.

"That's cute,"she whispers, her voice poisonous, "coming from an Angel who threw everything away only to finally realize daddy didn't care. Not just about a failure, about everyone."

She's right.

He backhands her anyway.

She knees him in the stomach. They match blow for blow, their exchange as easy as it was the day that he fought her when the Fallen were cast out of Heaven. He's furious at God, at himself, at Dean, at the stupid woman in the church who has the kind of faith he'll never have again. But the demon's in front of him, bearing scars that remind him one time not too long ago he was a servant of God and he takes it out on her. She's a good match for him and without their masters they fight with everything they've got. She's got her fight, he's got his and somewhere in his pocket another item is crossed off his lis.


They fight across the narrow alley until his back slams against the wall with enough force to make his foggy head dance with stars. He reverses their position and slams her back, pinning her hands to the space beside her head as he stares down at features and realizes its too bad that Dean has taught him scars are not unattractive things.

He's got her pinned against the cold cement of the wall and she's pressed against him. He hasn't used his hands to pin her but his hands themselves. Both their knuckles are broken, bleeding. Both their chests are heaving. She's let him grasp her wrists and hold them against the cold stone of the wall but she hasn't relinquished an ounce of control. He is an Angel without a God, she is a Demon without the Devil to guide her wicked hand. The thought crashes onto them both, it weakens and strengthens them as they stare at each other. They are foot soldiers. They are expendable. Both have had that fact slammed in their face and maybe, just maybe, it begins to take hold.

But they both still have something.


She is as proud of her wickedness as he is of his goodness. Or was. He's more than halfway through the list by now and wonders if he can even be considered good anymore. His eyes leave her face and go to the scars he sees creeping the skin of her neck. When he shoved her into the flames he remembers them being lower. His eyes move down the clingy fabric that covers her chest but its his own body that stops him from seeing what he needs to. Their bodies are pressed together and Castiel is not quite prepared for what he feels when he's chest to chest with the demon. Neither is she, if the look on her face is any indication and he's not entirely sure whether he's more disgusted with himself or her. Or if he even has the right to be disgusted at anyone anymore.

"You're feeling things," she says looking up at him, her voice dripping with a combination of venom and intrigue.

"And?" he finds his voice hoarse.

"Aren't you all supposed to be cold and emotionless?" she asks rolling her head back so that her espresso colored curls fell across her shoulders and brushed the fabric of his trench coat, "but you're not running with the pack anymore, are you?"

"Neither are you," he says and finds it hard to sound ashamed with the burn of liquor and the press of body.

"Nope," she replies and there is no shame in her tone.

He doesn't remember how they wind up in the hotel room.

He catches a glimpse of high ceilings and huge window that offer the kinds of views he's only seen when flying but the demon draws his attention to one place: her. She is teasingly delicate but thats all it is. Every flex of her wrist, every swish of her hair, every fucking sway of her hips, all of it is a tease for him. And God help him--even though he knows God's not exactly in a helping mood--he finds his body reacting to her. The worst part is that she knows it as well. She keeps her back to him as she moves, hiding the scar that is as much his fault as everything else thats brought him to this point.

"See something you like?" she asks with a teasing smile.

He says nothing and yet somehow she knows everything that is tumbling messily through his head. He watches her with what he tells himself is wariness but they both know it is something else. She is not offput by the look, if anything she enjoys the gaze he directs her way. She knows his eyes are drinking her in and whether it is suspicion, desire or just the liquor, its happening all the same. She saunters over to him, stopping when there is still distance between them and places her hands on her slim hips.

"Do angels fuck?" she asks, her tone blunt, "because in Hell, you know, we can--but its not the same," she turns and steps to the side, circling him. He follows her, his body turning towards her as she traces some invisible pattern along the scars that decorate her throat, "you need a Vessel to make it really really good," her fingers trail down to the shirt she wears, toying idly with the hem, "it just doesn't feel the same without--" she pauses, giving him the kind of smile that makes his breath catch and suddenly she's in front of him, her hand pressing somewhere that Castiel's not entirely prepared for, "this."

"You're a demon," he finds his voice but pride won't let him move away.

"No more than you're an Angel," she says stepping closer until her body is pressed fully against his, "and God doesn't care anymore, remember?"

He knows this is wrong. knows it and yet his body wants it so badly that he can barely see strait. He remembers the whore that Dean had set him with, the blond woman who was so sad it stole Castiel's breath. She's not sad, not really. Broken, sure, but not sad. The pieces of her broken soul are rough, sharp. He'll get cut, he knows it, but physical pain can only help to alleviate the deep, painful ache in his own sharp, rough, broken soul. Angel's aren't supposed to go on benders, he knows it and yet even as he stands there with a demon's lips a whisper from his own, he realizes that if being an Angel means taking orders from a God whose thrown everything he believes to the side, then he doesn't much want to be an Angel anymore.

At least not right now.

So he wraps his hand around the back of her shirt, fingers sliding up to the skin hidden by the fabric of her shirt. She watches him, her eyes searching his face as he splays his fingers on the bare skin of her back and pulls her roughly closer to him. Her lips part in surprise before they widen at the action, like his reaction is a prize she's won. The hand that touches him slides up past his belt, to his chest, fingers twining around the tie that he's still got knotted around his throat. He doesn't speak as she toys with the silk, her eyes never leaving his and he finds he wants everything. The skin, the hair, the sweet, wicked body pressed against his. Its sick, twisted and wrong and yet he wants it anyway. He's already rebelled against Heaven once. And if God finds it unforgivable, well, they've both done things that Castiel finds unforgivable so at the end of the day they're back to square one. Him and his God. So he pulls her closer, drowns in the perfume she wears and knows that however broken he is, she is just as broken as well and that makes him want her even more.


"You never answered my question," she tells him, moving her head so her hair falls against his coat and he finds himself entranced by the sight of espresso on tan, "do they fuck?"

"I'm not an Angel," he says, his lips finding hers.

They fuck.


There's no way to get around it, no veil they can pull over it. The first time is hurried, rough and up against a wall with her slim legs hooked around his hips. He only makes it out of his trench coat and blazer and the entire time she keeps his tie wrapped around her fingers. He's watched humanity enough to know the general theory but nothing can quite prepare him for what he's feeling when he thrusts into her. She makes sounds in the back of her throat that drive him forward and its done quickly.

The next time is slower and its on the bed and if it wasn't them and it wasn't like this, Castiel thinks it would be beautiful. His body reacts powerfully to the sensation of her body around his--but it also reacts to the expressions on her face. She is wild and free and dangerous, the antithesis of everything that he is and Castiel finds it both repulsive and enthralling. He's glad he's drunk. Glad that his thoughts are muddled. Glad that even if every thrust and bite and lick is tone with the sting of liquor and regret, he's too drunk to really notice or to care. God's going to let the world end anyway and Castiel's finding it very hard to care whether it'd be worse to go to Hell which is, well, Hell or to Heaven with a God who washed his hands of the apocalypse.

"Hell," she pants out and he realizes he must have voiced something without realizing it.

She takes advantage of his pause to flip their positions so she is on top, her hands braced against his shoulders. She takes no care now to hide the scars and he finds he doesn't not think they are bad. Scars are badges of survival. She survived holy fire--and him. He feels a sting on his neck from where she's bitten him and he wonders if he'll survive this and her with the same 'fuck you' attitude she so carelessly displays. She delights in the confusion on his face and bends down, catching his earlobe in her teeth and moving her hips in a way that makes his back arch and his hands dig into her skin.

"Hell," she repeats firmly, her breath hot on his neck and the shell of his ear, "there's less bullshit."

They fuck again and again and again until they collapse next to each other, too exhausted to fight over demons and angels and the bullshit that doesn't seem to really matter. Castiel finds that while its hard for an Angel to get drunk, its even harder for them to get un-drunk and he's still smashed. She is unashamed of her nakedness and turns to face him fully, propping a head up on her hand as she looks at him. He turns his gaze to her.

"its all bullshit," he says, voice dull to his own ears.

"Well aren't you just the happiest little angel," she mocks.

He's exhausted but he rolls over and traps her hands by her head anyway, pinning her down. Their nudeness should make it sexual but it doesn't. He's angry and it shows on his face but she is unafraid.

"I am not an angel," he repeats firmly because at the moment, just now, he can't be an angel. Not when he's fucked a demon, drank a liquor store, envied a woman for her faith, beat a vessel, indulged in his greed and lust and wrath and every sin that he swore never to feel. That he never knew he could feel, "i am not," he repeats.

Her nod surprises him.

Her kiss does not.

"No more than I'm a demon," she says and when he opens his mouth to protest she kisses him again, long and hard and hot before laying her head down and looking up at him coyly, "fair's fair."

Fair's got nothing to do with it but he surprises himself when he lets her go and rolls to the side. She scoots next to him, laying her head on his chest and he finds he doesn't exactly want to push away the warm, comforting weight on his shoulder.

Its hours later when he hears the phone ring.

He knows its the Winchesters.

Still fighting, still struggling, still needing the help of a guardian angel who can't really call himself that anymore. He hears the phone ring but when he moves to get up he is stopped both by the liquor that makes his head spin and by the warm body that tightens its sleepy grip around him. He looks down at her and realizes that they have both been asleep--even though neither really needs it. Without the malice or sin on her face she looks actually beautiful. Not in the warped demonic way but the way that so few women are. He saw it in the Harvelle women before they died and he sees that in her now too.

He blames it on the liquor.

Not on the fact that she is just like him. Broken, bruised and betrayed. Because if he does, if he starts to see the similarities between them now, he's going to really loose it. He hears the phone ring and he lets it go to his voicemail even though he's not sure how to follow the directions of the annoying, invisible woman who tells him to do things that make no sense. In the dark he pulls the warm body next to him and breaths in the smell of her hair and crosses the final item off the list.


The Winchesters can hold on for a few more hours. Besides, as he is, he's useless to them anyway. They need an angel to protect them, to guide them, to keep them on the path.

And, at the moment, Castiel is not an angel.

She wakes up alone.

She's glad.

There's a lingering smell of angel and alcohol over everything including her and she half expects to find feathers around. When she moves she does find that she is sore and doesn't bother to waste her energy trying to make herself feel better. She gets up and walks towards the hotel room's large bathroom when something catches her eye. She walks over to the mini bar, surprised to find it open. Open and empty, the little glass bottles scattered across the floor. If she was paying for the hotel room she'd be pissed. Instead she's just amused. She crosses her arms with a smile and looks at the mess before her eye catches the two items that do not belong there.

On top of the fridge she finds a crumpled five dollar bill and a list.

There are seven items on the list.








Each one is crossed out.

She feels her sore body and taste the liquor on her tongue and, for the first time in a long time, feels an odd sense of accomplishment. She picks up a pencil, turns the list over and begins one of her own, writing down a seven words before drawing a neat line through the first.


Meg smiles.

Okay this is unlike anything I've done before.

Um, yeah, sorry about the OOC-ness, I blame it on Castiel's breakdown.

Please review! If you guys like it I might be persuaded to do a sequel with them and the 7 virtues. Even if you don't want that please review!

So Please review!