AN: Inspired by the tumblr AU Meme's "When Demons Die" photo set. Megstiel, Meg-Centric. The story transitions from present tense (as it was written originally as a one shot) to past tense and runs as a series of long one-shots interconnected.

Chapter Summary: Meg's death has her waking in a strange place of peace and forgetfulness. Until something tries to tear her out.

In the Lethe

Submerged (When Demons Die)

There was no memory of how she came here or why she was here.

It wasn't important.

What was important? Nothing. It was not that she didn't care. There simply was nothing to care about. That this strange sense of peace was so foreign to an otherwise restless soul that she embraced the belief wholly.

But I had a name, she thinks to herself

A stolen name, a strange voice mutters in her head and she bowed her head against the breeze of the fan overhead.

Had it been days? Weeks? Or just hours? Seconds?

Her toe scrapes against the tile floor and she exhales slowly, just to ease the tension in her head though she was certain here she doesn't need to breathe.

She only remembers bits of her time in this place. Wasn't even sure she could have had a body in the beginning until that voice told her to pick a shape if she wished. The voice had explained she was here to heal and find peace before the next step and she would need something to walk about in.

A look to define her.

She'd settled for one that seemed right and familiar, and then instantly had surged upward from the bathtub she'd been lying submerged in. Dripping wet, icy cold at first with flesh unmarred by scars or accidental bruising and her head full of jumbled thoughts… but under that had been content. The warm air and sudden embrace of clean towels around her naked body had made her feel embraced. Loved.

Protected.

The body pleases her though she isn't sure why. Tiny in frame, hair a mixture of golden and black because she hadn't decided what she liked better, and she feels at home as her soul takes a new physical shape. Once her body had come into being in a way she didn't understand, once she had found herself clothed in a soft white cotton, she had wandered. Aimlessly and she didn't care where she went.

It didn't matter.

No cages of blood and bone, no smoke, no fire and sulphur...

No pain.

She grabs at her head and presses the heel of her hand against her eye to try to stop that throbbing ache that suddenly comes at the thought of fire.

You are safe here. There will be no more pain. You'll be ready soon. Rest.

"Yes," she whispers and keeps moving.

The halls are just a maze of white and stark greys, monochromatic monotony built to calm the mind. There is no hunger, just a tiny niggle of thirst at the back of her throat, and no pain. Now and then she finds a room, usually with a white sheeted bed where she can lie down and rest for as long as she wants. Wrapping herself in the silk makes her feel loved and like an absent-minded child she could sleep for what feels like hours.

But she can't stand the downy pillows left on each bed. Not when she'd accidentally touched the casing and felt feathers inside of them.

That phantom feeling of feathers causes an ache, if only for a short time before she'd forget it again.

She doesn't care after all, not really. It was just that...just that the memory… pricks.

It burns.

Dragging her fingers against the cool painted brick, she leans her head to the side and stares down at her pale bare feet sticking out from the slouchy legs of her white trousers. One foot after another.

Patience, patience.

Longest way around, as usual, she thinks wryly. Nothing to do but walk and yet that made her happy.

A soft snicking sound makes her look over her shoulder.

Meg.

Empty halls stretch behind her.

Meg.

The brick under her fingers crumbles a little and she turns back around, stares down at her feet with wide eyes of panic and fear.

Ignore them. You are content.

"Yes," she whispers as she starts down the hall.

The lack of hunger she felt somehow made the sudden thirst utterly crippling and she woke from a doze in the sun-lit window. The moment her feet hit the floor she lurched down to her knees.

She needed…

"You know we're all dreaming again for the first time since we were human? It's heaven on earth. Or hell."

Her voice? She coughs hoarsely and stops on her knees. Her voice. She knew it was her own. A borrowed sound but her words. Dreamed? What could she dream here but of softness and warmth?

Relax. Drink and forget.

"Yes," she whispers, desperate for just a drop and her stomach turns over impatiently. Just close by was a water fountain nailed to the wall. She just needs…

A drop of forgetfulness.

The water will bring you peace.

A spark of pure agony ran wildfire through her brain and she screams as she bows her head and pushes against it, crawling for the water fountain.

Meg.

Abomination.

Whore.

Bitch.

Demon.

"No no no no no," she begs while her nails scrapes into cold tile and she feels the ache increase until her throat is too dry for her to even swallow. The water fountain was so close but it might as well have been miles away for the suffering in her thirst.

Something dips close to her, brushes over the small of her back like the caress of fingers, and settles close against her with a phantom warmth.

Meg.

"That's not my real name," she grinds out between clenched teeth.

I know your true name but you like that name.

"What's going on?"

Ignore it. You will know no pain once you drink.

With one last pathetically desperate lurch forward, she grabs the metal edge of the fountain and turns it on. The water gushes out, and she thrust her mouth over the spout. Her eyes shut in pure pleasure, and soon she is gulping down the ice cold water until her entire face is soaked and water dribbles down her chin. With each precious swallow, the pain of those memories fades and she forgets the meaning of agony and burning.

You are content. You are loved. You will be protected.

Those precious hours between gulping drinks at the fountain start to shrink in span and she knows it is because she needs to forget more and more. Somehow she thinks that she has collected actual centuries of memories and she wants to forget it all. There's no pain in forgetting. The voice murmurs for her to drink her fill until she is happy again.

Someone wants her to be happy.

For the first time, she actually feels happy though she isn't sure where the comparison would lead her if she remembered.

The water eases the transition, bring a sparkling surface to her mind that doesn't hurt and doesn't hate. Scrubs her memories from her until she is nearly a clean slate.

She can't remember why she hated only that she had for a very long time.

Almost much as she had suffered.

The halls start to lead her places, where others are wandering. None of them greet her, each as lost as she is in the vastness of the building. They form lines as they slowly walk down the halls and she filed in happily with them, exchanging a smile now and then but never once does it lead to any real acknowledgement. One, a handsome man with black hair and blue-grey eyes, makes her memory prick again and she doesn't want to know why. She stayed for precious sips at the fountain to forget that feeling and then continues on her way.

Snick-snick.

Something stutters in the building and the line of people she'd been following all stop as one, like a centipede deciding its way. There's no change in expression in any of their faces and they all wait but the longer she waits, the stranger it becomes. She needs to move. If she stays still, she'll remember.

She starts to push her way through the line and they let her without helping her. The door is so close now, to another hall, to another fountain of water and she relaxes.

Until she hears the hiss of flames.

Do not listen. You are safe if you stay in line.

Fire laces through the lines of people and encompasses one of the men, setting him like a brilliant torch. She stares, the only one to look, and he stands there without trying to put out the flames, without screaming. His skin crisps to black and smells of foulness and blood, but no one goes to save him. The sensation of pure power coursing through the building makes her prickle in awareness, realizing that the power is searching for something.

Without knowing why, her hands go to her stomach and brush underneath her t-shirt to touch the smooth strip of skin between breast and hip.

"You can't gank demons, can you? You're cut off from the home office and you ain't got the juice. So what *can* you do, you impotent sap?" Her voice again, breathless and hungry.

"I can do this." A huskier voice, seductive and hot as fire, pulls at her thirst.

Then burning pain and humiliation.

Fresh agony rips through her entire body, and she screams, putting her hands over her ears to try to block out the thought. It's not just the pain of fire, it's the memory that she had been humiliated. Defeated. Again and again. Tortured and stretched to her limitations. All for nothing.

Forget.

Remember.

She wakes slowly, eyes flickering at the pale light in the distance. Somehow she'd been brought outside, transported in that way of waking dreams, and now instead of warm sheets she lies on soft hot sand. The hum of waves lapping at the shoreline drone on and on, and she rolls to her side to look out at the horizon. No clear sign of a sun, just light that highlighted the blue and green of the waters, drifting over her and warming her.

Remember.

"I don't want to remember. I am happy for the first time since..." Stalling. When was that last time? "I am content."

Wake up!

Striking pain slammed into her face.

Forget. Forget. Forget. Forget. Forget. Forget. Forget.

Drink and forget. Bathe in Lethe.

Stumbling to her feet, that lurching movement happens again, as if she can't control her own strides again.

She nearly makes it to the waves that turn the sand dark, but before her toes even can become wet agonizing awareness comes back.

I came, I saw, I conquered.

You really think that's what this is about? The master plan? I don't give a rat's ass about the master plan.

It's a prison, made of bone and flesh and blood and fear.

I'm doing this for the same reasons you do what you do—loyalty. Love.

You find a cause and you serve it.

"What am I?" She asks as she stares at the horizon and tries to remember how and why.

Suddenly it's important and there is no knowing why it changes.

Here it is not important, you will be reborn.

Wake up!

The sky begins to crack, splintering apart like shards of glass, and the waves that had been touching her toes suddenly dry up into salt that burns her skin. A hand grasps her by her own but when she looks no one is there touching her though the grip is strong. But to accompany that invisible touch is a darkness settling in the pit of her stomach like a cold knot of pressure.

Forget.

Remember.

The two words begin to overlap in her mind and she settles down onto her knees. The peace and comfort of the halls, the warmth and protect, all of it is gone. Only confusion and despair and pain centrifuge inside of her and spirals out until she puts her hands to her head to try to block out the words.

The one word begins to ring louder than the other, a pull on her soul, and the sheer white-hot agony of it burns. Her soul goes from crystalline white to smoky darkness in a heartbeat while tetherhooks of magic and power rip her from Oblivion.

The sky finally falls when she tilts her head back and screams.

"Meg?"

Castiel sits on the end of the bed and stares at the demon huddled in the centre of the sheets. Exhausted to the core, he'd sat here, calling her by name and waiting for a sign. Dean and Sam are both asleep in the armchairs, not liking the idea of doing this but in a rare sign of solidarity they'd stayed at his side. He'd worked what power he had, what power he'd borrowed in dark magic and angry ritual, to find a way to pull her back. It has been well over an hour since she'd been killed, run through by the very blade he'd once let her use, because of what his actions had caused, and in the confusion of battle he'd saved her stolen meatsuit and worked so hard to try to think of a way.

He still needs her help.

He still owes her a favour.

The spell had taken so much from him that he can feel blood still caked on his clothing, his own battle wounds unhealed and burning with pain. But he'd ignored it when he'd seen that smoke drift in coils through the sigils and portals upon portals he'd built to pull her free. He only knew in myth where demons went when destroyed. Souls were recycled, purified, but ultimately forgotten. He's not even sure what happens to them but the blocks against him had been strong.

Castiel had never used so much power at once before and he can feel the exhaustion through his grace.

"Meg?"

There's a faint movement on the bed and a moan that sounds hoarse. Near him, Sam jerks awake and stares at what had once been a corpse.

"Did it work?"

"I'm not sure." He can't keep the small bit of hope from his voice. "Meg?"

Her head doesn't lift from the pillow but he can see her eyes opening, black and bottomless. Moving around the bed, Castiel kneels beside her and looks into her eyes. It takes moments for her to focus on his face, to process the fresh flood of memories, and the hiss she gives is feral and furious, like a wounded animal facing a predator. She jerks back on the bed, her body against the headboard with a loud thump, and the wildness in her expression makes the angel stare.

There is no gratitude in the look she shoots him.

"What have you done?" she whispers, lifting her hands to her face. Like him, she can see her own darkness just beneath the surface of the stolen skin, and instead of her usual pride there is disgust and loathing. Her eyes lock on his. "What have you done to me?"

"I brought you back." He expects her to do what she always does. Accept, carry on, a loyal soldier.

But something changes and twists in her face that wasn't there before.

The whisper turns to a screech. "How could you! How could you do this!"

The high-pitch scream she gives startles Dean awake but Castiel can't tear his eyes away from the sheer pain in the demon. Not thorns. Not evil or hate. Not beauty. Just pain and fear.

Demons were torn apart in Hell so that pain is something they do not fear. He's not seen her so expressive and yet out of control before. But now that pain and fear are mixed in a volatile combination and he's out of his depth. Her hands shake and she beats at her head repeatedly. "I want to go back."

Dean and Sam glance at each other and Dean clears his throat, eyeing the demon knife speculatively but Sam shakes his head, pointing at Castiel. Meg ignores the looks and her eyes lock on the angel still sitting beside her. Reaching out, he gingerly touches her other hand. This time the resigned defeat there in her face is pinpoint and real, like the edge of a knife that twists deeper than it should, and he knows that he would have better accepted her hatred than this shadow he's pulled free from Lethe.

"I'm sorry." For the first time, an angel means the words when spoken to a demon.