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"Do you miss it?" she asks, and Castiel wish she wouldn't ask. By now he's learned that people will ask what appear to be straightforward questions, but his straightforward answer is rarely what they want to hear. He doesn't want to lie. He's so tired of lying.
"I miss some parts of it," he admits, and relaxes when she appears unfazed. She tucks herself closer against him, forehead against his neck, and Castiel shifts to accommodate her.
"Which parts?"
"Flying, for one," he replies. "Walking is inefficient."
She laughs, for some reason. "That's not what I meant."
He turns his head and presses his lips to her forehead, an absent-minded gesture. "What do you mean?"
But instead of answering, she tips her head up and kisses his mouth, and he forgets the question.
+
Castiel works as a security guard at the local history museum, where he is bored but effective at frightening the patrons away from poking curiously at the dioramas. Meg trains police dogs, and a few months into her job, they find themselves to be the owner of a German Shepherd named Moe who follows Meg adoringly around the house and likes to chew on Castiel's shoes.
"He's untrainable," she said the first time he brought his left boot to her as evidence of Moe's crimes. "I mean for a police dog. He doesn't have the right temperament."
"Is chewing a burglar's shoe not an effective way of stopping them?"
"Why, Clarence. Is that a joke?"
"Is it?"
Meg pats his cheek. "It's not a very good one."
The dog sleeps in their bedroom, curled up at the foot of their bed. He likes to wake Castiel up in the mornings by licking his feet, which has trained Castiel to sleep close to the center of the bed where Moe can't reach. Now Meg complains about how Castiel takes up all the space. ("Plenty of space," he had murmured, and pulled her closer and she grinned her wicked grin.)
The dog loves Sam, whenever he and Dean drop by, and Sam is easily distracted by Moe's affection, easily lured away for a game of fetch. "Take him for a walk," Meg would say, taking advantage of the situation. She hands Sam the leash, and Sam is only too happy to help.
"Who'd have thunk?" Dean says. The afternoon is seguing into the golds and purples of early evening, and he has just declined Castiel's invitation to stay for dinner. They're sitting on the steps of the back porch, watching Sam hold a frisbee above his head as Moe bounces impatiently around him. "The two of you," Dean continues, "white picket fence, two-point-four dog."
"Our fence is chain-link."
"How long before little Megs and Castiels start running around, huh?" Dean smiles, but looks tired. He takes another sip of his beer and turns to Castiel, "Can you two even--? No, you know what, I don't wanna know."
The conversation tapers off, and they watch Sam and Moe again. Castiel can hear the murmur of the TV from inside, where Meg is watching one of her reality shows. At around this time, it would be the one with the models, which she complains all the way through if Castiel is there to hear it. She never misses an episode.
Meg never really stays around for the conversation for very long whenever Sam and Dean come around.
"So, uh," Dean says, and clears his throat, and Castiel realize belatedly that even that brief silence was awkward for him. "How's the job?"
"Uninteresting. What passes for history in this down is entirely depressing. My brothers have stood still watching over God's holy sites for longer than this town has been existed."
Dean snorts. "Sounds like you guys."
"And they expect me to protect sixty-year-old manuscripts and clothes no one wears anymore. It's..." Castiel waves his hand frustratedly, trying to find the word. (A habit he has picked up from Janice, one of the tour guides, who gesticulates animatedly whether she's explaining something to a school group or venting to him about her roommate, who apparently never does the dishes.)
"Yeah," Dean says.
Castiel says, "Yeah."
There's a little silver growing into Dean's temples, and the crow's feet around his eyes don't disappear anymore when he stops smiling. He always looks tired when he shows up at their door. Sam's the one with the smiles and the hugs and the greetings, and he subtly pokes Dean to do the same. Castiel suspects if Dean had his way, they would never drop by at all.
The brothers on their way to a haunting north of here. There may be no angels and demons anymore, but there are still violent deaths and spirits who refuse to leave this world. Werewolves are still hungry and vampires still need to feed. Hunters will never be short of a job. ("Can you imagine me in a nine-to-five?" Dean said to him one time, and his tone made it sound like a joke, but Castiel doesn't know why. He remembers Dean in a nine-to-five, all those years ago when he lived with the Braedens. He doesn't need to imagine, and when Castiel said so, Dean grew sullen and stayed sullen until he and Sam left, rather abruptly, at Dean's insistence.)
"It's a routine salt and burn," Dean says, peeling the label on his beer. "Hey, if you got time and need a break from suburbia, y'know. What do you say?"
"Like the good old days," Castiel says. A phrase he hears too much of, working in a history museum.
"Yeah," Dean says. "Yeah. Uh, using the term 'good' lightly here, but yeah. I guess."
Castiel is vaguely aware of Dean studying him as he mulls over the possibility. He can probably take time off work. He never takes vacation days, after all. Who does he see about that? Mallory? He wonders if Meg wants to come, then wonders if Sam and Dean want her around at all. But then again, Meg probably wouldn't want to come anyway. Who'd take care of Moe?
He takes too long thinking about it and Dean says, "You know what, never mind."
"Dean-"
"Naw, it's fine. Me and Sam got it covered." His knees crack when he stands up. "We gotta go before we lose the light. It's a couple of hours up to Norwood."
"Let me call in to work tomorrow and see-"
Dean laughs, a loud sharp sound. "Listen to you, man. Mr. Joe Shmoe Average, calling in to work." He grins and ruffles Castiel's hair roughly, and Castiel stands up to avoid it. "Don't worry about it. Balance your checkbook and worry about your 401k or whatever. Me and Sammy will keep the ghoulies at bay. Sam!"
Sam looks up from playing tug of war with the frisbee. Moe seems to be winning.
"Let's get a move on!" Dean yells.
Sam lets go of the frisbee.
Fifteen minutes later, Castiel and Meg watch from their front door as the Impala backs out of the driveway. Moe barks incessantly at it from the living room window, and they're probably going to get another complaint from Mr. Johannes next door about needing to control that dog. The old man seems to be the only person in the world who isn't afraid of Meg.
From where Castiel stands, he can see Sam turn in the passenger to ask Dean a question, and Dean responds with a lackluster shrug. As Dean lifts his hand out the window in goodbye, Meg slips her arm around Castiel's waist and rests her head against his shoulder.
"Wave at them, Castiel," she murmurs. "Don't be rude."
Castiel waves, and the both of them watch the car drive on and on and disappear around the bend, to Norwood, to whatever life has always awaited the Winchesters, apparently, no matter what.
They go inside and close the door, and Meg kisses him before he gets to ask what she wants for dinner. She pushes Castiel against the door and kisses him, and she tastes of her favorite bourbon that she claims to save for special occasions. He matches her fervor, because if he doesn't he might drown in her. This is one thing that hasn't changed about her. The ocean of her. Castiel touches her face and closes his eyes, and she moans when he tangles his hand in her hair, tipping her head back.
"Let's fuck," she whispers.
"Yes," he rasps. "Yes."
Moe wanders in and barks once, then trots over and sniffs curiously at Meg's shoes. Castiel tries discreetly to push him away with his foot.
"Don't kick my dog," Meg says.
"I'm not kicking him. I'm pushing him."
"With your foot?"
"Gently."
She laughs. "Nice try." Meg steps back, and dodges when Castiel reaches for her. "Isn't it time to feed him?"
"It's time to fuck," he says, and she laughs again.
"Feed him," she says, unbuttoning the top button of her shirt, "then meet me upstairs."
She unbuttons the second button, smiles slow and languorous at Castiel, then heads for the stairs.
He stares at Moe, who looks expectantly at him and wags his tail.
"You're a monster," Castiel informs him.
Moe barks once, as if in agreement. Castiel sighs.
+
When he opens the bedroom door, Meg is curled up under the covers with her eyes closed, already drifting into a doze. She can sleep anywhere, anytime, and it's a habit Castiel can't understand on any level. He's a light sleeper, mainly because the idea of sleep still discomfits him. Mainly because of the dreams. But Meg takes to sleeping like a duck to water, and Castiel is intrigued by the utter peace on her face when she's deep in slumber. He rarely sees that look on her when she's awake. It makes her look human, one who has never died and gone to hell and became a demon.
Castiel can no longer see her true face, and it has occurred to him that maybe it's because this is her true face now. These thoughts fill him with anger and a specific kind of despair that he's not sure is more on his behalf or hers. He will never want to know if Meg can still detect anything remotely angelic about him.
"You gonna stand there all night?" she murmurs, eyes still closed.
Castiel steps inside and close the door. He pulls off his t-shirt. He steps out of his sandals. He tosses the t-shirt on top of the pile of her clothes already discarded on the floor, and he unbuttons his jeans.
Meg turns to face him and opens her eyes. She smiles lazily as she slides the covers off her, revealing her naked body. Castiel pauses mid-unzipping, drinking in the sight of her. He should be used to this by now. He's not. She takes his breath away every time.
She slides her hand towards him, palm up. "C'mere."
And he does.
+
There's one chair by their bedroom window, and no table. Meg likes to sit there as she smokes cigarettes, exhaling the smoke out the window. Even in the winter, with the cold coming in, she'll sit there and puff away, contented as anything as the warmth leaks out of the room.
She's sitting there now, dressed only in Castiel's t-shirt and staring at the darkness outside with an unreadable expression on her face. Many expressions are unreadable to him, but by this time he usually knows which ones mean anger and which mean delight. Castiel doesn't know what this one means because he's never asked. She never explains. He senses something vast underneath her quiescence, and it makes him uncomfortable.
They are alone in their inherited bodies. Castiel and Meg are the last angel and demon on earth, cast off into mortality when they were cut off from the places that made them. When they die, they will take the secrets of heaven and hell with them, the ones not even Sam and Dean know. This comforts Castiel for reasons he can't quite explain. Meg has taught him to value that which is yours and yours alone. For example, Meg has never told Castiel what her true name is. Maybe she will never tell him.
He wonders what secrets Dean still carries. The man attracts them like moths to a flame.
He wonders how Dean is doing in Norwood when Meg says, "Castiel."
Castiel meets her eyes in the mirror and watch her breathe in, out, in. When she speaks again, he can tell it's not what she originally meant to ask.
"You want pizza for dinner?" she says.
"Pizza's fine."
She smiles, but it looks like Dean's tired smile. There's nothing stopping Castiel from going to her and touching her face and kissing her forehead, so he does. She holds on to a fistful of his shirt and doesn't seem to have any intention of letting go, so Castiel stands there, letting Meg lean against him.
"Pepperoni," she says.
"Okay."
And they continue holding each other, watching the dark outside.