Butterfly With Legs

This is one of those stories I started in my head a long time ago. The events of 8.17 reminded me what I see in these two, together. So here you go: a little season 7-era Megstiel.

It’s sort of disgusting how good Castiel makes Meg feel. Even when they’re both prisoners, basically, inside this damn institution.

Butterfly With Legs

For such a bony son of a bitch, you’d never guess that Castiel would take up this much room.

“Fuck,” I huff, one knee balanced on the edge of the bed. “Hey! Move over.”

He rolls away for a moment, just enough for me to get all the way under the blanket and then, bang! I’ve got two arms full of angel.

Oh, yeah. He’s a warm sleepy piglet, this one. I never took him for a cuddler, but damn if he doesn’t always tuck in nice and tight, his body curled so his knees hit my thighs.

He smells like contentment and strawberry jam.

The part of me that’s Meg thinks of her little sister. A blonde, brown-eyed puff beside her in the guest bed at grandma’s. Sis—Annie—too scared to sleep alone.

“I shouldn’t have let you watch that movie,” me-Meg scolds, then. I draw the blankets up tight, draw her in tighter. “Chicken. I told you you’d have nightmares.”

Annie nods frantically because now she knows I’m right. Shoves her chicken fluff head under my chin and latches herself like a life jacket to my chest.

“Meg-han,” she wheezes, summer pollen thick in her voice. “Sorry. I said I’m sorry. Can I stay? Can I? I’ll be quiet. Promise.”

I can feel her real live weight in my arms and I know she’s already half-asleep. I run my tongue over my braces—still new, still hurt like hell—and give a sigh. The big sister special.

“Ok,” I whisper. “But you gotta be quiet.”

“Am too. Am quiet,” she yawns into my shoulder. “Am.” She sounds like a little kid, like the baby she’s so not anymore, and I hold on tighter than I need to to keep her from getting away.

“Shhh,” I say, pointless. She’s out like a light.

In my mind, in Meg’s, the crickets swell, a crechendo of owls at the door, all broken up by—

“I love you,” the angel sighs.

How did he know where my grandma lived? me-Meg starts, looking wild into the dark, but oh. No.

It’s just Castiel.

And me. Both of us still here in this sterile jail of a hospital. Like fucked-up Wonder Twins, the angel and I: we’re trapped. Joined together at the fist and stuck.

“Goddamn Winchesters,” I growl for at least the tenth time today.

He breathes like bread right out of the oven, his stupid pretty hair poking me in the face and shooting up my damn nose. I shove him a little, try at least to get my head free from his ethereal trip of delicious. But no dice, fourdice, because cracked up or not, he’s still an angel. Bones of titanium or something. The definition of an immovable object. Especially when he’s asleep. The more I resist, the harder he holds.

Like Dean, the me-Sam part of my head spits, and ugh. I’m so not in the mood for their brand of crap right now.

I flop back on the starchy sheets, my horrible nurse costume twisting like polyester agate in my side. “Shit,” I huff a little too loud. But it’s ok. I don’t wake the baby, because my voice just gets swallowed by Castiel’s mane.

It’s grown so fast.

I reach up and stretch my fingers through it. Rub my palm on his head till he purrs. Not Sam-level tresses yet, but if I don’t cut it soon, he’ll give Beanstalk a run for his Fabio.

I like it long, though. And since Fluffy couldn’t pick scissors out of a line-up, much less wield ‘em, it’s my call.

I run my nails over his neck just a little, just until he leans back into my hand so I can see his face.

His smile. It’s gorgeous and uninterrupted, even with his eyes closed. If they were open, they wouldn’t be for long.

I’d pretty much have to kiss him, then.

His chin bumps mine. He’s scratchy as fuck, more beard than barefaced now.

I like the beard. So it stays.

His arm unfurls and he stripes his stars around my waist. His knees are practically in my gut now, bony little bitches, but I don’t care.

I push my other hand under his forehead and cradle that beautiful, broken-up noggin.

I like him broken. So I stay.

He shifts just enough so that it’s lips on my chin, now. Warm dry mouth that whispers:

“I love you.”

Something in me, in all the me-meats before, goes completely caramel this time. Damn. It’s sort of disgusting how good Castiel makes me feel.

“I hate to break it to you, Feathers,” I sigh, aiming for the moment with hammer. “But you declared your undying love to rice pudding at dinner. And I’m not the kind of girl who fools around.”

He wriggles up, little eel, and stares into my face.

“I love rice pudding,” he tells me, exact same tone as before. “Even the raisins.”

I smile. Not because I want to. Because I can’t fucking help it. “Well ok, then. We can’t go sneaking around raisin’s back now, can we?”

He doesn’t answer. Just hums a little, the same wordless thing I’ve caught him singing to the butterflies. His hand flits off my hip and sails to my face. He settles it just so on my nose, so we can just see each other over his knuckles. He’s so close that I can hear his Grace sloshing around inside his head like a heavenly Slurpee.

“Meghan,” he says in a voice I bet Dean’d never recognize, one that’s Settled and small. It’s more intimate, my name in his mouth, than any sex the me-meats can remember. Than I can.

Doesn’t mean I’ve become a fucking nun, though. I put up with this shit because I know what’s coming next.

He lifts his hand and leans in. Kisses me before our eyes can close. It’s weird, the look I see when our lips meet, but easy to forget.

He kisses me carefully, like he’s not totally sure what to do. Honestly, I think he’s forgotten how. I think he has to teach himself over and over, again and again, every night. With me.

I lie still, like I always do out of the gate. He’s like a hummingbird for the first few rounds and I’m always afraid that I’ll startle him. That he’ll up and fly away if he knows it’s me he’s touching.

But the shift comes quick tonight; one moment, I’m the Lady of Shallot drifting in a prince’s kiss—sometimes I wish Meg hadn’t been a lit major—and the next, I’m goddamn Madonna, licking into an angel’s mouth while we rock together on the alter of our love.

I’m blaming that one on Sam.

We don’t fuck, the ethereal and I. Never. That disappoints me far more than it should. I tell myself it’s because, heaven or not, he’s gorgeous, and at least two-thirds of the me-meats would screw him in a tiger beat if given the chance.

Oh, he gets hard sometimes, sure. And me? Well. Let’s just say that Castiel cracks through my candy shell and brings out the vanilla ice cream, every time.

I want him. Oh hell yes, I do. And once I know I would have fucked him, mindless or not, and not given two shits what he thought about it. Or if he even could.

But even now, when his hand’s wound in my hair and he’s pressing kisses to my throat, sweet and feverish. Even as he’s saying my name. Not mine. Is mine—

“Meghan,” he breathes. “Meghan.”

—even now, when he’s turned my heart into a spiral, a long twisty thing turning, always turning, towards him, I know: I’d never hurt him. Not my Castiel. Is mine. Not mine.

“Meghan,” he sighs. “Dean.”

I freeze.

He—doesn’t. Keeps right on touching me, moving his lips over my face, my neck.

He’s forgotten already.

He has no idea what he’s just—

“Goddamn Winchesters!” I bark in his ear.

He falls back, wincing. “Loud,” he murmurs. “Don’t like it.”

I take my chance and storm out from between the sheets. “Tough shit,” I grit. I glare down into his face into he shrinks back. Until he’s too far away for me to touch. “Your little pets have stirred up a fucking hornet’s nest this time. I gotta go talk with my compadres. See if we can sort it out.” I cock my head and parody his favorite expression: mine’s a puppy-dog stare from a Rottweiler. “You think you can get to sleep on your own tonight, hmm? Like the big bad angel you are?”

He nods, his skin white on rice. “I am tired,” he says solemnly. “I will try.”

I tear my treacherous eyes away and make for the door. Make as much goddamn noise as I can, just to hurt him.

“Goodnight, Clarence,” I sing-song.

I hit the light before he can answer, before I can see his face, and scoot. But not fast enough.

“Goodnight, Meghan,” he calls, just to hurt me.

No. Of course not.

He’d never hurt me. Not my Castiel.

I stop before I get to the end of the ward. Shove tears out of Meg’s face and buck up, little soldier. I press my face to the dingy glass and stare at the sky, made soupy by Applebee’s and mini-marts and Target, by track lighting and nightlights and bedroom doors cracked open, letting the light from the hallway keep the monsters away.

“Goodnight, Meg,” Annie whispers.

“Goodnight, Sammy,” Dean huffs.

“Fuck off, Waltons,” I spit at the stars. I can’t see them, but I know they must be there.

I wonder what this mudball looks like from up there.

Maybe I’ll ask Castiel in the morning. Apple juice tomorrow. He loves apple juice.


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