Tree of Good and Evil
Based on this post: post/31256383229/to-taste-his-blood-to-taste-his-bone
It's like a fucked up version of a kid's Sunday School story.
Meg runs her hands through the coarse, short hair, feeling the body beneath her tense as she tightens her grip and clashes their lips together in a brutal, bruising kiss. His lips are chapped, but eager, smoldering her with a kind of fire that should be familiar to her, but it's all so distant, somehow, so new. The blazing heat that shoots through her blackened soul is hot and cold and so damned addicting as it spreads from the tip of her tongue to the burning core of her meatsuit. She hisses, pushing the angel against a wall, smirking as she feels him boldly run a hand down her back to cup her ass.
Clarence breaks apart the kiss, looking at her through hooded baby blue eyes. He's got this pleading look directed straight at her (and she's sure that the moose has given Feathers some lessons in Puppy Eyes 101), and it feels strange. Like she doesn't know what to do, and it's annoying. It gets even more irritating when the treetopper leans in close, and raises his hand to fucking cradle her face with a gentle palm of his hand. It's all so soft and sweet and hell, Meg doesn't do sweet. She's not even sure if she knows what "sweet" fucking is. So she wrenches his hand away from her face and glares at him, her eyes blackening in anger.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" the demon snaps, giving him a rough shove away from her. The man stumbles slightly before regaining his balance, giving her a slight cock of the head. Confusion. "I was merely admiring you, Meg," he says softly, and that gets on her nerves even more because goddammit, the low, gravelly voice is too tender, too hesitant for her liking. She remembers the sheer power and coldness that once edged his tongue with a hint of ice and aloofness. It's all gone now. Like he doesn't know anymore. Like he has to learn everything all over again.
Meg can feel the rage burning within her, a fire far more familiar to her battered being. "You stupid piece of shit," she spits out, almost in disgust. "Don't fuck with me. You know what I fucking look like, what I fucking am." A foreign lump swells in the pit of her stomach and God she feels pathetic. Thousands of years in a cage of blood and pain, of bathing in writhing corpses and relishing in the screams of the damned. She's got more shit under belt than the brothers Frik and Frak, and that's saying something. But she feels anxious. And apprehensive. And almost…ashamed. All because of some fuck up cloudhopper who had some freakish kink for hellfire.
"That's not true."
She catches his eyes, and they're locked onto hers, holding her in a steady gaze. "I don't know what you are." And Meg almost lets out a loud laugh, because fuck, that's the funniest thing she's heard all day.
"That's rich, Feathers," she says with a smirk, patting his cheek in mock affection. "If you lost the memo when you were on your monster date with Dean-o, I'm a demon." She bats her eyes sarcastically, giving him a belittling look. "And you're an angel. If you've forgotten again, I guess you like to do that."
Castiel hasn't moved from where he's standing, and his eyes haven't done so much as flickered. He tilts his head slightly, looking at her carefully. "…No." he replies softly, and suddenly Meg feels cold and exposed under his gaze. He looks tired, like the life has been sucked out of him and replaced with a bucket load of shit. He shifts closer, grasping her hand (and crap, she'd let her fingers linger on his face far longer than planned) and leaning into her palm reverently. He doesn't break his gaze as he continues. "…and no."
It's like someone took a pitcher of cold water and dumped down her spine. She feels herself tremble, the gentleness of the contact making her stomach roll with something new and fucking disgusting. Maybe a few years ago, back when she was still Asenath, daughter of Azazel and loyal follower of Lucifer, she would have taken her sweet time ripping apart the angel, or at least die trying, because there was nothing sweeter than to take something so pure and twist it into something so dark. But she hasn't used the name Asenath in years. She's been 'Meg' for so long now, and at the back of her head she wonders if the screaming soul from so long ago is somehow haunting her, slowly picking her apart for ruining her cherry young life.
She can't find words, not even her trademark snazzy comebacks, and Clare…Castiel…is leaning closer, drawing up her other hand to cup his other cheek. "You are not a demon," he murmurs softly. "….and I am not an angel."
She's feeling queasy, her eyes darkening even more, if that was even possible. She's full out shaking now, and she's not sure why; feels like something inside of her is dying, screaming. Fading. She manages a small smirk, training her eyes onto his. "Then what are we, Feathers? What the flying fuck are we?"
He's tracing her knuckles with the tips of his fingers thoughtfully, like he's found something strange and studying it intently. Like he's learning. He looks at her with a small smile, and it looks both so wrong and so right on his meatsuit's face, Meg can't help herself. She goes back in for another kiss, but he's guiding them this time, and it's…chaste. Close-lipped and careful, his fingers caressing the nape of her neck has brushes their lips together slightly, but fuck, Meg has never felt something so intimate in all her existence. He pulls away with a slight nibble of her bottom lip, eyes still closed, as if he's relishing the moment. "We are," he says slowly, testing the taste of the words on the tip of his tongue, "We are something new."
Meg's not so sure what to say to that. There's a weird cocktail of fear and doubt and rage bubbling in the pit of her stomach, along with the other feeling which she chooses to ignore until it destroys her, or her it. Her first impulse is to shove the treetopper far away from her and then maybe pop over to some small town and raise some hell. Leave a trail of blood and bone, just to remind everyone who she is and what she does. It's a brilliant idea, she thinks, and she's going to jump on it definitely, but then the long expanse of her Castiel's neck catches her eye, and fuck the feeling bubbling inside her just got ten times stronger. She doesn't know what it is that is drawing her to the pale skin, warm and full of light.That can fucking kill you a voice screams inside of her, but maybe that's the point. Take a bite out of that forbidden place, sink her teeth into the angel's core, get a piece of that purity, get burned, feel the power of a fire that she's never tamed before. If hellfire corrupts, what would the flames of heaven do to her?
So she yanks her hands away from the soft caress of Castiel's jaw, and grabs a handful of his coat, pulling him towards her. His eyes widen slightly as she forces him to expose his neck, her tongue snaking out to take a long lick along his vein. His breath quickens as she begins to ravage the soft flesh, lips and teeth marking and biting wildly. Their hips move together frantically, one of her legs curving around his side to bring him closer, to make the friction even better. Her teeth begin to sink into the skin, and he doesn't so much as tense at the pain. Rather, he wraps his arms around her, bringing her up against the wall as the first drops of red begin to trickle from the bite. Her eyes roll to the back of her head, and she doesn't even know what the fuck is going on anymore. Doesn't know why she's suddenly a blank slate, suddenly empty and in need of knowledge. She feels the cool metal of the angel blade slip down the sleeve of her worn leather jacket, and they both know she has it. He only looks at her from the corner of his eye as she suddenly grabs the handle and points the tip of the sword along the nape of his neck. And she presses down, just a bit, and he lets out a howl, a muffled cry of pain, and it's music to her ears. There's a flickering light just under the crimson stains, and God it shouldn't be this mouth watering. What the fuck is she doing?
She swoops down, sucking on the wound like its water (or something), and. It. Fucking. Hurts. It's like swallowing hellfire, except worse. At least hellfire held the promise of corruption. This held nothing but pain. Cleanliness. Her eyes widen and blacken simultaneously, and she can't stop licking at the rip of skin. In the back of her mind, she wonders if Sammy-boy had something like this when he did the horizontal tango with Ruby. If he felt this much searing hot pain and torture and if it coursed through his veins like the worst kind of addiction.
A pair of hands yank her away from the angel's neck, and suddenly she's looking at him through confused, horrified eyes. He blinks, touching the small scar with a flinch before looking back at her with an equal amount of what-the-fuckery. "I…am not sure what happened." he confesses, and Meg can only give a small smirk at managing to rile things up (even if she's beyond shaken herself). "Guess you can say I got a little taste of heaven," she jokes, but Castiel's look remains blank. She suddenly feels small under his gaze, blue eyes thoughtful and squinting in concentration as a grave look drops over his face. He tilts his head once more, reaching out to touch her lips, and the blood rushes away from her face. Something's wrong, and she's not sure what.
It's silent for a while, nothing but the whir of a fan and the drip of a sink in the background. Finally, he looks back at the bloody patch of skin on his neck. "You are searching for a purpose," he says matter-of-factly, eyes not meeting hers. "You want answers. You want stability, a clear cause." He flickers his eyes back to her. "That's why you bit me."
"Jesus, thanks for that analysis Dr. Phil," Meg snaps, rolling her eyes and leaning against the cool tiles of the wall. "Didn't know they had shrink schools up in the clouds, Feathers."
"But that's why you bit me," Castiel presses on, eye brows scrunching in thought. "You want reassurance in your damnation. You wanted to make sure that you are still a creature of perdition."
He grabs Meg by the shoulders, shoving her against the wall as his voice grows more ominous, graver. "But you can't escape, Meg," he's saying and she's trembling and dammit she might just piss herself because there's no way he knows what's been happening to her, angel or not. It's fucking unheard of. Fucking unheard of. He's gazing down at her with a look that seems to cut right through her, peeling away her defenses inch by inch. "You are changing.."
"What if I don't wanna change?" Meg snaps, struggling against his hold. Her eyes are black again, and it's slightly worrying how much they've been been flickering lately. "What if I like being the bad guy, hm?" He doesn't say anything, so she continues. "What if I like raising up a little hell here and there, spicing the plate up a bit?" she cackles, throwing her head backwards, and she's not sure whether she's completely lost it or not. She feels like shes clutching at straws. "Face it Clarence," she drawls, giving him a lopsided smirk. "I'm the serpent in the goddamn tree, and I like it."
There's a silence, the quietness enveloping the room, before a small smile curves its way up on Cas's lips, and suddenly Meg's not so confident anymore. "The serpent is gone," Cas is saying, and she can't look away from his eyes, she can't. "It withered away and died a long time ago. All that's left is truth and knowledge."
Meg inwardly groans. She fucking hates it when Cas gets cryptic. It was a stupid habit he picked up at the hospital, or maybe he's always been like that. Either way it's fucking annoying.
"So what?" she says skeptically, trying to look bored, but inside she's scared. She's shaking to the core, scared shitless and she doesn't really want to know the truth. Not really. "What does that fucking mean?"
"It means we make a choice," Castiel says, and his eyes suddenly seem so far away. Meg can only wonder what the fuck happened back at Monsterland. She shifts uncomfortably. He's released her shoulders and gives her a long look. "Choose wisely, Asenath," he tells her, lips drawn into a tight line. And then he's gone.
Meg stares blankly at the empty spot infront of her, face grim and tight. She wonders if he noticed. Because she hadn't. Not up until right that moment.
The blackness in her eyes was gone.