Her gaze sweeps assiduously over him. Instinct makes her calculations of his appearance predatory, infused with that natural fear borne out of the forever unremitting war amid their two species. But right now? She's on his side. And anyways, she'd long ago learned to ignore that fear, to the point that it was nothing more than a festering buzz in the pit of her stomach.
Sometimes she craves that buzz.
He isn't doing so well. It had been almost forty-eight hours since his little episode at the psych ward, since succumbing to a force that somehow compelled even him into spilling his own blood to paint those symbols on the wall. The influx of memories and energy that came with remembering all of those events in his millennia of existence had surged through him like a hurricane, sending him to his knees, writhing on the floor. It had been catastrophic and beautiful.
He'd bowed under the weight of them. And then he had fought against the handful of demons on pure righteous instinct and the renewed knowledge of what he was. Or what he had been.
He still isn't all there, Meg realizes. His batteries are little more than a candlelight of Grace, but it had been enough. Yet now his injuries render him annoyingly grounded. Annoying, for him. Meg, much to his constant chagrin, always manages to garner some amusement out of his pain.
Deano is still away on whatever reconnaissance mission he'd marched off on, and has yet to learn that his lost friend now remembers who he is. Meg's mouth twists into something resembling a frown. She's no angel doctor (though apparently, she is), but she doesn't think the cloudhopper is in any condition for that emotional train wreck of a conversation. Especially not after his little meltdown when she'd gotten him away from the scene of the crime two days before.
She'd left him for hours as he'd curled in on himself on the shoddy apartment floor, shuddering under the force of his guilt and self-loathing and whatever else it was that angels cried about. Truth be told, Meg never actually thought they could show emotion. But there always had been something different about this one.
Now, he's at least gotten over that very human roadblock. She assumes he still wishes himself dead, but the tears have all but dried up. Probably for the best—she doesn't do emotion. At least not well. And he isn't talking a lot anyway, hadn't said anything as she'd patched him up either; didn't even make a fuss at the idea of a demon tending to an angel. And, despite gaining control over that assault of onerous memories, he generally still looks freaking miserable. The shock of the whole ordeal seems to be taking a toll on his body and mood, to top it off.
He's struggling to get vertical now, determined to do it himself and hoping she won't notice. He'd had some broken bones, his ribs in particular, and it's still hard for him to keep any weight on his right leg. He's healing far too slowly for either of their liking, frankly.
Meg smirks and sidles up to him, presenting her arm. Castiel ignores it. "Why are you still here?" he mumbles instead.
"What else am I going to do?" she says loftily. "We're both on the run, remember? Those leviathans are crapping in everyone's cereal bowl."
His movements hitch with a wince and she catches his arm, steadying him upright. "Don't touch me," he growls halfheartedly, tagging a grudging please to the end of his demand. He can't deny how much she's helped him through the past two days, and hates the fact with a burning passion. Whether it was the bizarre comfort her presence provided, or the almost-gentle slide of her hands as she'd changed his bandages, she's still a demon. He's always too happy to remind her.
But then, she was no more a demon than he was an angel lately.
Meg whistles. "You just keep talking angry at me, baby," she coos, guiding him over to the kitchen where she assumes he'll hunt for something to eat. It's progress; usually she has to force feed him. Embarrassing to require food after thousands of years of never needing it, she thinks. Or there could be other reasons for his lack of appetite. She doesn't dwell too long on it. "You know what it does to my meatsuit."
They stop at the nearest counter. "Why do you insist on giving me a dozen nicknames?" the angel asks her, and Meg isn't sure if it's an honest question or a complaint. With Tall Dark and Brooding, it's often hard to tell.
"What do I call you?" she retorts back, unable to keep from goading him.
His eyes narrow, almost wearily. "Feathers. Captain Scowl. Now baby. And there was Clarence, which I've never understood."
Meg laughs. "You don't understand Clarence, but you understand baby," she relays flatly. God, he was fascinating.
His brow pinches a little in that too-endearing way that she's both beginning to abhor and take pleasure in. Blue eyes retreat briefly to the floor. "Dean says that without my powers, I'm just a baby in a trenchcoat," he mutters.
This time Meg's laugh is a full on cackle.
"It isn't funny."
She snickers deviously at his almost petulant tone, identifying the sullen look in his eyes as the one that conveyed how much he wished he could smite her. She waits until he finishes his glass of water to only turn away at the sight of food, and then leads him back into the other room. So that's a no to that progress, then. Figures.
Feeling oddly charitable, Meg helps him settle back into the couch and says, "If it's of any consolation, I meant it in the other connotation."
He looks confused and a little vexed. "There's more than one?"
Meg smiles down at him—a sight he's both beginning to fear and… enjoy. The angel frowns.
"It's a term of affection, Clarence." Meg leans down, too quick for any protests, and pecks the corner of his mouth with her lips. When she pulls away, their ruby red surface curls into a catty smile. This little canary is too fun.
Castiel's face screws up in a mixture of disgruntlement and intrigue. All the while, his eyes flash with that same look he'd given her the year before in that factory when he was throwing her against the nearest wall and crushing her mouth with his.
Meg knows she has him. Throwing him a wink, she sashays away. "And if you're really good, I may even make you a sandwich later."
Castiel slumps into the cushions in defeat once he's alone, feeling like he's just lost some arcane battle.