Hollow

"I don't remember being human." She says it almost idly, her pale fingertips tapping against the starch white of her thigh. The material chafes her skin and she wonders how anyone can like dressing in stiff skirts and pressed blouses. "Sometimes, I wonder if I ever was," she continues and tilts her head back, taking in the night sky through the bars of his window.

She glances once over her shoulder toward the man on the bed. Castiel doesn't respond. He very rarely does. His face is blank, his mind somewhere not there, the deep ocean of his eyes flat and lifeless."Not that it matters," she adds, turning back to the view. There are no stars tonight, and the moon is hidden and the shadows are long.

She fogs the glass with her breath and draws a mocking smilie face with her fingertip. Absent gestures that mean nothing to her or the man in the room. She doesn't know why she doesn't just leave him here to rot alone. For a time she was able to lie to herself, to tell herself that she needed him alive as insurance. If she watched over him then maybe, just maybe, the Winchester boys wouldn't try to remove her head from her torso when given the chance. And if any demons came gunning for her—and there were many on her tail—Castiel could smite them down. But after weeks of watching him watch the walls she knew that he offered her no more protection than a blanket from the boogie man.

If anything the little tree topper was a liability and she should cut her losses and run. And yet...here she remains. Surrounded by sobbing, wretched, broken humans that beg her for help and clutch at her sleeves and skin like she could actually ease them. It was laughable, really. Asking her, a demon that could easily and without regret slit each of them from throat to navel, for help.

She should just leave. Walk out the door now and never look back. What were the odds that the Winchesters would even bother with her now while the Leviathans roamed loose? She could evade other hunters, Crowley, and demons alike, after all, she'd managed it so far. So why is she still here, damn it? To watch over one shattered angel? Maybe she's just a glutton for punishment.

She shakes her head ruefully, reaching up to pull the pins from her tight coil, and continues to talk. "I suppose I must have been once," she mutters, tousling her dark hair with her free hand. "I mean, that's how it goes, right? Souls go to hell, get all slick and twisted in blood and fire," Meg wipes her hand across the smilie face, erasing it. "And then voila: demon."

Behind her, Castiel is silent.

She has no idea why she does this either—why she talks to him. She tells him things that she's never told anyone; things that she would rather keep buried, and yet she can't seem to stem the flow of words when she's alone with him. Especially at night, when the residents are quiet and it feels like it's only the two of them left in the world.

"I probably had a name once, too. Not that I can remember it. I've worn so many meatsuits that I've lost count and so many identities that they're all blended into one. One sincerely fucked up package of wanna-be actresses and broken dreams." She feels her lips curve and she slants Castiel a look over her shoulder. "Although, I did ride a nun once. At least until she burnt up."

A blink. Nothing more.

"You know, Clarence, you're seriously cramping my fun." With a sigh she makes her way to his side, bending so that her nose brushes his and stares into his eyes. "What is going on in there, feathers?" She taps two fingers to his temple and frowns. "What boat-load of crazy did you suck in from Sammy, huh? Is my father in there with you? Is he peeling you like a fruit?"

Castiel exhales but remains quiet. Pushing away from him, she rolls her eyes. "Just a little taste of Hell and all you angel babies fall to pieces."

"Loud..."

She's so startled by the sound of his voice that blinking is all she does for a moment. Then, "What?"

"Loud...he is loud...can't...think..." He frowns, his brows drawing down over confused eyes. "Hurts."

Without realizing it, she's back at his side, her hand finding it's way to his hair, her fingers brushing the dark strands back. "Tell him to shut the fuck up," she says, surprising herself.

He tilts his head. "He says...the Pit is waiting...for you...traitor."

She shrugs, feigning a nonchalance she doesn't feel. "It can wait." She has to remind herself that it's not Lucifer in there—not really. Her father is in a cage, locked and sealed. And she's helping the ones that stuck him there, an inner voice reminds her, making her flinch.

Despite the numerous vile things that could be said about her, she has never been disloyal and it bothers her to think that in the end, she may be. All demons were self serving, right? Just par for the course if she left Lucifer to stew for another few thousand years while saving her own ass.

Willing to leave her father—her creator—but not Blinky the angel. Damn, she was fucked up.

Abruptly Meg moves away from Castiel, rubbing her forehead. She should probably call Dean and let him know that his feathery friend was spitting out syllables. Maybe they'd come back and take him off her hands.

"Why...are you here?" Rougher than usual from lack of use, his voice skitters along her already fryed nerves.

She locks a crooked smile in place before turning to face him. "Couldn't leave you here all by your lonesome, now could I, Clarence? Besides, I couldn't resist the opportunity to give you sponge bath."

His eyes narrow for a moment and he opens his mouth—to retort, she thinks—but then his features go slack and placid and his eyes are once more hollow. He's lost in his inner Hell again.

"Oh, come on," she sighs, tossing her head back to swear at the ceiling. Once again she moves in front of him, bending so that she is in his eye-line. "Come out, come out, wherever you are," she sings.

Long minutes of silence stretch between them and she accepts that there will be no more progress this night. With more care than many would give her credit for, Meg shifts Castiel's listless form until he's lying on his bed before she drags the sheets over him. She has no idea if angels even get cold, but somehow he seems less vulnerable when tucked in, so she does it.

"There," she tells him, patting his chest. "Nighty night. Don't let the bed bugs bite. Although, honestly, they're probably the least of your worries." Her lips twitch but even to her the smile feels forced so she lets it drop.

It shouldn't bother her to see him like this, she thinks. If anything she should be smug, gloating, and laughing at his expense, but she can't bring herself to taunt or tease or mock and that scares her. Above the Winchesters, Crowley, or even Damnation, this frightens her.

She leans over him and presses her lips to his ear. "You had better snap out of it soon, Clarence, for both our sakes." And with that she leaves him.

On her way out she leaves instructions at the front desk to be immediately notified if he needs her or if anything changes, and she almost laughs when the night clerk tells her that she's such a good person. So dedicated.

In the parking lot she pauses and looks up towards the windows, absently seeking the black panel that belongs to him and tries to shake off the emptiness she feels.