Summary: This is basically 26 one shots about Castiel and Meg's strange and unconventional relationship.


Neither of them need it. Their respective 'meatsuit' and 'vessel' had both seen much more trauma than this. Castiel's has been shot, stabbed and ripped to pieces. And Meg's experienced even worse. So neither of them quite understood why, when they slowly pull away from that kiss, they both need to gasp for air.


When he's around it feels like those very old days, when she was still human. When the world was a dark, disgusting place and her old meatsuit was infested with tiny critters. It's like his presence gets stuck on her skin. His gaze crawls across her. It's swarming through her hair, across her lips, into the corner of her eyes. He hasn't even touched her and soon he'll be burrowing inside.


Mutilation of a meatsuit isn't anything new to either of them. Meg never much cared about the damage she did, and whether or not he could admit it to himself, Castiel had about as much respect for his vessel as she did for hers. Sure, he could magically heal it over and over again, but Meg felt that it was a pretty crappy deal for the careless abuse suffered by the host. Not that she cared, not really. After all, it didn't hurt the angel within.

Still, she couldn't quite stop this hiss of sympathetic pain that escaped her as she watched him slice open the skin on his palm as he used the host's blood for some hiding ritual.


Castiel had participated in numerous drinking games while with the Winchester brothers, although he hardly saw the point. He had a much higher tolerance to alcohol than any human could manage, and the nights had always ended with a bored angel and a violently sick hunter.

So drinking with Meg was a wake up call. It had once taken Castiel the contents of an entire liquor store to inebriate him – between the two of them they had polished off three stores, and the slightly shaky, but clear-eyed Meg was suggesting a fourth.


He expected something different. He expected a rank stench, something more along the lines of rotting flesh, smoke or sulphur. But as he held her flush along his body, his mouth only inches from hers, he smelt something familiar. Dark, yes, but refreshing. Like freshly turned soil, moist and rich, eagerly awaiting new seeds. She smelt like life.

Maybe this is what Dean meant when he used the phrase 'getting dirty'. Castiel made a note to ask him about this later.


The fire fuelled by holy oil gave off a soft and soothing scent. Meg drifted lazily across the room as she delighted in the heady aroma, blissfully aware that the cloud hopper's hooded eyes were fixed upon her every movement. She was still so dreamy. Her father was close enough to bestow his touch upon her, the hunters were being ripped apart as that very moment, and she knew at the very core of her being that they were winning this war to end all wars. She sighed happily and lent on a wall, looking across the room and through the flames at the little trapped angel. His dark, hostile eyes stared back. She couldn't wait to receive what she'd been promised - to drip flames across his back and watch those pretty wings burn.


He didn't expect to find her here. Beneath the Town Hall, forgotten in the darkness, broken and twisted and mixed with the bones of dozens of other faceless lives. This had been the main convict graveyard before the powers that be decided not to waste expensive land on the decaying corpses of petty criminals. They hadn't even bothered to move them, just simply built on top. Shamefully mistreated in life, disregarded in death, and then abused and destroyed in Hell until she was nothing more than a thing.

She didn't even have a gravestone.

He couldn't bring himself to burn her bones.


'Sometimes your heart is so pretty I just want to live there.'

Meg didn't know the song or who was singing. Whoever she was repeated this line several times. Normally Meg wouldn't even notice a soft little song like this, but that line … that one human line …

She glanced over at him. Studying some ancient text with the hunters, studiously ignoring her. She gave a soft snort. He was righteous and pious and obeying … and clean and loyal and pure. She wasn't sure she was ever like that.

Before she met him she didn't even know she wanted to be.


Whenever mankind turned their backs on God they would usually find their lives to be lacking. To fill this void they created false idols of stone and gold, a pathetic shadow of what they once knew. They clung to these abominations desperately, trying to find some sort of anchor in their lives.

For eons Castiel had scorned this, and pitied them. But now, as the aching loss of his Father ate away at him, he could see the appeal. He had unwittingly found a new idol, one of darkness caged in stolen flesh. Every bit as wrong as the golden calf, and every bit as cherished.


Despite what people think, Hell isn't a dark place. Meg knows this for a fact, having spent several agonising lifetimes burning away in the painfully bright light of the hell fires. After that Earth seems very dull and dark. The only thing that can compare with that hideous brightness is that one cloud hopper. Sometimes she wonders how those meatsacks miss it, that blistering light of heaven seeping out of every pore of his vessel. She knows, given the chance, the fire would burn her to ash quicker than any flame in Hell - but she's not afraid. Sometimes, the strength of the light stings her eyes - but she never looks away. He's mesmerising, he's beautiful, and somehow, even though he's only a spark, he still manages to shine brighter than all of Hell.


With a full moon it can be bright and soft. Without it, the shadows melt together. Meg loved the entrancing landscape under the washed out colour of the moonlight. She loved to see the new angels of darkness that only appeared on his face in this light.

Castiel preferred the complete darkness of midnight. He didn't want to be able to see what he was doing.


A high-pitched whine filled the room, gradually building in volume and intensity. Furniture started to shake. Pictures rattled on walls. Various glass objects in the room started to hum and vibrate until they simply couldn't take it anymore. Glasses shattered. The bathroom mirror cracked. Light bulb fixtures exploded in a shower of sparks, and even the humans outside started falling to their knees, faces twisted in pain, hands over their ears.

And suddenly, everything was silent again.

Sweaty and boneless, Castiel collapsed on top of her, gasping her name. Meg focused on remembering which way was up. And what exactly 'up' was again. And it was only then that she realised that she was covered in tiny shards of glass.

"Oh, it could've been worse," murmured Meg as she kissed her way along his throbbing neck. "You could've been a screamer."


Castiel knew of human prophets who had become lost in an endless desert when, at the point of collapses, they had been granted a sanctuary by God. A place of peace and isolation. Of soft grass and gentle streams. Where the birds would bring them food while the merciless desert would howl impotently at the borders.

Sometimes Castiel wondered if his Father would ever grant him something like that. One point in all the universe, where just he – and one other – could find some moments of peace together.

If only for a while.


Castiel was never easy about Meg's meatsuit. She couldn't help but laugh in his face the first time he brought it up. How else did he expect her to get around, if not for hitching a lift inside some little actress? He explained to her, in his patient and forceful way, that he couldn't just stand by and watch as she slowly but surely burnt away the life force of an innocent woman.

At this point Meg took a step back and shrewdly raked her eyes over his stolen flesh. "What about that innocent life force inside your meatsuit?" she asked snidely.

Castiel looked as though he'd been hit. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he turned away. "That life force perished," was all he said.

They never talked about it again.


It wasn't planned. There had been nothing leading up to it, no coy suggestions or smouldering looks promising more later on. It was the simple thrill of surviving. This time they had been sure, so very sure, that they weren't just going to walk away from the fight this time. Without really talking about it they had both prepared themselves for the end.

So when they suddenly realised that they had in fact managed to get away, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to celebrate it.

They broke upon one another, all teeth and hands and pressure. Thoughts and emotions were thrown to the wind and nothing but sensation mattered.

It was all over before they could even think, but that didn't matter. All they needed to know was that they were alive. They were so very alive.


Meg always enjoyed the rain. She loved it when the heavy drops hit her flesh, paused for a moment as if stunned, then continued their slower journey downwards, rolling delishously over her hyper-sensitive skin. Could sensation get any better than this?

With a growl the drenched angel next to her suddenly grabbed her waist, his large hands hot on her skin when everything else was cold. He pulled her towards him aggressively, his mouth suddenly fixed on the swell of one breast, stopping one of those droplets in its tracks. He then dragged his tongue upwards, retracing the water's path, tasting her rain soaking skin along her chest and up her neck before nipping none too gently at her ear.

Meg was wrong. Rain could never compare to this.


Meg had always believed that the universe was way too random to ever be the product of some higher power. This didn't mean that she didn't believe in God; of course she did, and she had some good proof to the fact. But she didn't believe that He had had much to do with the place since He created it. She had tried to explain this to the Castiel once, to his abhorrence. He of course believed that God had a hand in everything, and was insulted by the suggestion otherwise.

To try and prove her point, Meg threw her hand up at the night's sky. "Look at those stars!" she commanded. Castiel obligingly glanced upwards, and then back at Meg.

"I don't think God would waste his time thinking about where each little light should go," she concluded.

"He did," was all the bloody cloud hopper would say. Meg scoffed at this.

"If this world is the only one that matters, then why would He spend so much time place each individual star?"

And then, strangely enough, Castiel smiled and wrapped his arms around her. "Because this one world was His ultimate creation, and everything was thought through. Right down to the placement of each and every star."


His large hand slowly brushed along her naked back, palm down, barely touching the skin and leaving goose bumps in his wake. Slowly he worked his way from the dip of her spine right up to her neck, where his fingers briefly lost themselves in her thick hair. Then, using just the tips of his fingers he traced the gentle slope from her neck to her shoulder, and then further downwards to the outline of her shoulder blade.

His hands had come to know her body intimately, every dip and bend and crevice. But he had never taken the time to examine her face.


Male or female, Meg always preferred her meatsuits to be beautiful. For one thing, it made her job a hell of a lot easier – big dewy eyes, soft plump lips and curves all in the right places tended to put humans off their game. When would they learn that it's what's inside that counts?

But Meg never knew exactly how much she valued her precious mask until she met someone who could see right through it. Who bypassed her gorgeous stolen looks and was repelled by the sight of the hideous monster within. It made her furious. It made her want to weep, to crawl away and hide. She couldn't hide from him and, for the first time ever, she realised just how truly ugly she was.


The more time he spent on earth, the more he felt he was loosing his place in Heaven. It was a hollowing experience, but somehow different to falling. When he fell, he had been ripped away from all he knew and loved, thrown into a world of never ending torment. But it was worse then that. Now he felt … nothing. There was a vast emptiness inside him, and the Earth on the outside could offer him no consolation.

But as he floated aimlessly through this abyss, there was one thing. And as he curled around it – her – he no longer felt as if he were lost in a great nothingness. He felt safe.


She never saw them. It shouldn't have surprised her, really. Angels have wings – humans do not. Still, as she ran her palm across the smooth planes of his back as he slept, she couldn't help but draw delicate lines along his spine, imagining where they might sit. She gave a soft sigh before dropping a kiss upon a shoulder and snuggling against his warm and solid form.

The next morning he tried very hard to leave without waking her. It didn't work, but she played possum to please him.

She froze when she felt the faintest brush of feathers across her cheek, and then he was gone.


Filth. Scum. Abomination. There were so many ways in which an angel could describe a demon, and Castiel had used every single one. He hated them, hated them without question and had delivered divine justice without mercy. It was just the way he was. He had never attempted to understand them, and had been insulted by the idea of getting to know one.

But now that he did know one, and intimately, he was starting to realise something. That blind hatred that he had harboured had never been based on personal experience.

There was a word for people like that.


They lay tangled up with each other, limbs and flesh all meeting and twisting in a beautiful pattern. Meg shifted slightly, just enough so she could see Castiel's face. Then, her mischievous eyes never leaving his, she gave a large, playful yawn. A few seconds later, Castiel mirrored her. She laughed at this, full and throaty, snuggling closer to him.

"Knew it," she said triumphantly.

"Knew what?" asked Castiel, perplexed.

"Well," whispered Meg against his skin. "Only the truly empathetic will mirror a yawn."


There is a balance to the world. Up and down. Day and night. Heaven and hell. Many people believe that to achieve this balance, each side must be the complete opposite of its contemporary. Black and white.

This is not true.

Because the two sides always make something that is whole, and they can not exist as a whole without some influence bleeding through.

Ying and yang. Even something good can have a little bit of evil in it. And something bad can show a glimmer of morality. To keep the balance there must be some understanding of the other side, and a general acceptance that they will never change.

Like angels and demons.

Final notes:

The song line from Heart came from 'Valium' by Lisa Mitchell, and I highly recommend that people listen to her album 'Wonder'. Go, listen to it now!

And lastly, the idea for Bones came from that fact that Sydney Town Hall is actually built on an old graveyard, and they are still finding bones to this day. I like the idea that human!Meg was a convict, but that's just me.