This is a response to a prompt a really sweet anon reviewer left me. I hope you see this! I hope you know that I love you for paying attention to me!

I'm being weird at work for you, just for you!

So, Megstiel is not even close to my OTP. I like it, but I'm a Destiel girl, through and through. I had a blast though. This is exactly why I invite prompts; it's just FUN to play with pairings I either wouldn't have thought of or thought myself capable of.

Sorry for any errors. Uploaded at work with the most cursory of edits.

Warnings: I don't own supernatural otherwise it would be on Logo or HBO for graphic gay penis things. Very mature, Meg/ Castiel hints of Destiel.

Enjoy. I LOVE reviews.

She sort of tasted like sulfur. She told him that he tasted like a mouth full of feathers, dry and tickling. She could have been lying. She did that, sometimes. And sometimes she was kidding. He still could never tell when she did which.

The trick was probably in the eyes. Sometimes they were shining and bright with some sort of joke or scheme. Sometimes they were dull, as though someone was home but sitting with the lights off, waiting for whoever was at their door to decide nothing was there and move on.

They were shining when he sat up, when that little bell in the cosmos woke him from his coma. The loop of Lucifer's torture, his pleasure, his cruelty and his ecstasy came to a screeching halt; a new prophet had been awoken. There was no time for madness; God's word was to be spoken once again.

Her eyes were dull when the other patients would walk towards her, hands outstretched, pleading words. Begging her for compassion. Begging her for help. They saw her vessel, soft and beautiful as it was. They mistook her sweet face for a merciful creature. He knew that she was brutal. He saw her soul.

When a soul is tortured in Hell, it is torn, ripped, slit. The skin of a soul is more resilient than the skin of a body. To rip it open would take an act of pure hatred and violence. Then the soul repairs itself, growing along the cuts and creating a new, stronger, if distorted, seam, holding the soul together. He could see the gashes along her face, like trenches dug into the earth, scars of the war and the torture she endured for centuries.

She had done them to herself. Many demons did. They destroyed their own souls to grow stronger in the face of Hell. Like clipping the ears of a pit bull to make it mean, she made her soul into something savage, not merely to survive, but to thrive.

But she was beautiful in all her distortion, the light of her soul, her essence, her, shining through all the cracks in her armor, appearing prickly as it played along the light. If he squinted, he could see the body of the woman she possessed. It was soft and pale. Pretty, he assumed, but he had seen many pretty women in all his existence. This one, Meg, was glorious in her deformity, it wasn't until he was mentally thrown into the cage, beaten, hated, raped by his brother, that Castiel could see the poetry in her massacred soul. Each cut was a quiet, weeping battle with herself and her circumstance; she could have either torn herself apart or let someone else do it. It wasn't until Castiel felt Sam's soul being ripped as if it were his own, as if Castiel had his own, that he could see her tragic perfection.

He realized that she was there out of some obligation to Sam and Dean. Despite what she liked to chortle in his ear, he wasn't naïve. But she was there. And her eyes shined when she talked to him, even if he couldn't tell when she was kidding.

It was said that when a human had lost an extremity, they could still feel it with them. Even when there was only a memory in the dead air where their arm or leg used to be, the human could feel it, a part of them, even when it had vanished into thin air.

Castiel had never had a soul. He had never felt the sort of hopeless vulnerability that came with it. But he felt something there, something that hadn't existed before Sam's madness, floating around him, occupying his mind. Castiel had a grace, which wasn't terribly different. A grace could feel and a grace could die, it could be built and it could be broken. He had learned that n the passenger seat of a certain Impala.

He could feel fear, betrayl, despair. He lifted a blade and killed his brothers; he was not immune to guilt and self-loathing. He had laid on his back on cotton sheets, he had felt coarse hands on his trembling skin, smelled the sweat and musk and hair of a man in the dark of a certain motel room. Castiel could feel lust. He could feel love.

He could feel gut wrenching loss when that man chose a woman, a family, a fellow soul that welcomed him as his own kind. A child and a home; Castiel could never offer him those things. He felt his grace shatter (he didn't have a heart to be broken, after all) as he turned and gave the man he loved all those things. He walked away and left him with his own kind, to build a home and a family. Castiel killed his own family and Castiel hurt his own kind. Castiel was alone, but the hunter didn't have to be, and Castiel loved him enough to give him that. Castiel didn't have a heart, but he felt something, some phantom appendage break as though it had once belonged there. It was just a reminder that it didn't.

And then Castiel really did break. He broke himself to protect the man and the hunter left him there. He killed his brothers so that his lover would never know how it felt to lose his own, again. He destroyed himself so that the revolution, Team Free Will, could stand strong. Then Castiel fixed his Sam and took his place among the broken and unwanted people on the Earth, because Dean loved his brother so. He loved his brother more than he could ever love Castiel.

The hunter left him in the care of the other unwanted creature that he didn't understand. Castiel's grace was warped, smashed in like a car that was T boned, the impenetrable metal was bent and broken and Dean had left him Castiel had been a car, Bobby would have declared him not worth the tow.

But she wasn't worth the tow either, so they sat, abandoned scraps of metal, among all the other crippled souls and fractured minds in the hospital, all left behind by those that they had loved.

Her skin was soft, softer than his other lover's skin but it was more than her being female, it was her vessel. He could see her hard lines and cruel scarred face, but when he touched her with his hands it was soft and plush and warm. She had a chubby waist that jiggled when she bounced on his cock, soft thighs with cellulite that shook as she rode him. Castiel couldn't get enough. Every snap of her hips against him drove him closer and closer to completion, two broken souls and bodies rutting together to feel something whole and divine. They still could feel that, they weren't so hopeless as to not have that.

His only other lover kept him tucked away in the motel rooms, on the cotton sheets and in the dark, their love reeking of stale air and secrets. If he let out a whine as he was entered or a shuddering moan as he was swallowed alive, a strong hand would clamp over his mouth, muffling him. It was not unlike when Castiel would exorcise a demon, trapping the darkness into its body so that it could die, be torn apart, ravaged from the inside, unable to escape. The war hardened hand over his mouth kept his pleasure trapped inside him until it exploded in white lights behind his eyes, until it turned him inside out with an orgasm so fast and hard it actually, physically, hurt.

She didn't hurt at all. They did it in the daylight, with the lights on so that he could see her in all her scarred and jiggling glory. She didn't really care if anyone heard, in fact, Castiel was sure that she encouraged it. He imagined that a part of her wanted to get caught, the nurse in the arms of the maddened patient, willingly giving her body over to unpredictable man, fucking him or letting him plow into her as she bent over the cheap, generic and sterile sheets of his hospital bed. She was not immune to the clichéd fantasies, and had been the sexual obsession of several of the other patients in the ward. For a while, there was a sketch of her floating around, not terribly good but accurate enough to be able to determine that it was, in fact, Meg with her ankles behind her ears and her hand inside her own pussy. She wasn't alone, up by the head of her crude pornographic debut was an erect cock, making its way towards her open lips.

Someone had slipped it under his door, another patient and she walked in on Castiel looking at it. He had never really seen her body before, distracted as he was by the shining spikes of her ravaged soul. But in the picture, all he saw was a body, the artist had no sympathy for her torture or her strength, she was just a soft body and a hot mouth to be fucked.

She snatched the picture out of his hand and laughed broadly. Holding it at arms length and tilting it a little, as if the new angle would make her gaping, vulgar pussy and lips into something more than a piece of flesh to be used. It didn't. She didn't seem to mind.

She turned to him, holding the picture up to her face, and looking at him expectantly. He couldn't tell if she was kidding.

"What do you think?" she asked, then she mimicked the parted lips of the sketch, licking them. "Do I look like the whore in the picture?" She grinned even wider as she took him in, her eyes dropping to his erection. A human male vessel with a pornographic sketch in his hands. Castiel didn't feel ashamed of biology. "Aren't you happy to see me, Clarence?"

That was the first time after breaking into Crowley's demon prison. The first time that she slinked towards him, slow and sultry, running her hands over the girl's body as if it were her own. She walked around him, close enough that the smell of her skin as it wafted past his nose made his pants even tighter.

She dropped onto his bed and started pulling her scrubs off, luxuriously running her hands over the pale skin and the dark pink nipples. She bucked up her hips enough to slide her pants and underwear down to the floor. She lay back against his pillow, spreading her legs and touching herself, pulling and teasing the lips of her entrance, making them shine with wetness and casting the room into the stench of her sex.

"Well, Mr. Pizza man, I'm real sorry that I don't have enough money for that extra large sausage. I'm just a babysitter, you see, and they don't pay me near enough. Maybe I can do something else for you?" The girl she was using had a long, slow voice, sort of a drawl, raspy and luxurious in seduction .She was smiling, predatory, knowing, probably kidding, but Castiel really wasn't sure. He didn't know if he ever would be, but her eyes were shining, and her legs were spread so invitingly.

"Keep the coat on." She demanded.

She didn't lock the door behind her, and Castiel knew that anyone could walk in and see her being fucked. He wondered if anyone would care. She was a terrible nurse. He didn't even have a file in the hospital, he simply occupied space. They were rejects, outcasts, damned and unwanted, even by the broken and unwanted.

The bed creaked under him, and it was small, so he ended up shoving her legs apart and off the sides of the bed to make room for himself between them.

"C'mon, you filthy little angel, make me see God."

He stroked his hands up her naked thighs and marveled at the new sensation. She made an impatient noise and started to slide her hand back down to her dripping wetness to do it herself. Castiel caught her hand.

"You're beautiful." He said.

"Ok, Shakespeare, lets get this show on the road."

"You're beautiful" he said, a little more authoritatively.

"Look, I didn't bring my strap-on, so I'm not really equipped for a lesbian relationship right now." She rolled her eyes and started to move to get up, but Castiel caught her and threw her back onto the bed. She looked up at him, surprised, startled and her eyes were glinting more than ever.

"You're beautiful." He asserted, violently. She nodded feverishly but didn't seem to have anything to say for once. Castiel pulled his dick out, hard and straining, almost purple in it's need for her. The drawstring pants of his patient uniform made it to somewhere around his thighs before they joined together.

"Holy Christ." She moaned as he stretched her around his dick. She wrapped her girl's legs around his man's waist as he fucked into her. It was tight and wet, so, so wet that he thought he might die from the slick perfection, from the sight of a pussy's lips, hungry for him, eating him alive. The bed creaked as he pounded into her, claimed her as his. She ran her fingers down his back, claiming him as hers.

It didn't seem that anyone else wanted them anyways. Even among the damned, she had no home. He had destroyed his own. If ever there were a damned angel, Castiel was it.

She gripped his hair so tightly as she came, a moaning, beautiful sound, deep and lazy like her vessel's voice. Jimmy's cry was more like a short bark, strong and sure. He wondered what he would sound like if he had been born with flesh that could know pleasure like these humans did. He wondered what she sounded like when she was in her own skin, all that time ago, before she hurt herself to get mean.

They would never know each other that way, they only had the hands of other bodies to try and find something of themselves in each other.

"Not bad, for a tree topper." She said, running her fingers through his hair as he laid on top of her. He still didn't know if she was kidding. If he closed his eyes, he could just feel the plump skin beneath his, he couldn't see her battered soul. It was young skin, untarnished by age or acne or anything more than perfect, completely fuckable fat.

But he kept his eyes open. She was so pretty with all her jagged battle scars.

I gave you sex, you give me reviews. That's how this relationship works.