Written for the prompt, 'Crowstiel, preferably with Meg, and humanity' as part of a Secret Santa fic exchange on Tumblr and originally posted here.

This is set in a slightly alternate Season 9 in which Castiel wasn't kicked out of the bunker.

Three days.

Three days and four hours.

Three days and four hours and seventeen minutes.

Altogether two hundred and seventy-four thousand, six hundred and twenty seconds since Squirrel and Moose had last paid him a visit.

It was his own fault, really. He kept insulting them. Kept pushing them until they slammed the doors shut in unison – because they did everything in unison; they walked in unison, they breathed in unison, they probably pissed in unison – and left him in darkness.

He hated the darkness.

It was dark in Hell, but this was a different kind of darkness. This darkness spoke to him – it infiltrated his thoughts and made him feel guilty.

"Well, well, well," a familiar voice purred.

He tried to turn around, to see where she was because if she wasn't dead then she'd kill him, but the collar around his neck and the chains around his wrists and ankles limited his every move.

"Look at you, all trussed up like a Christmas turkey."

He could feel her breath against his ear, and he jerked away.

"Not so powerful now, hot shot?"

"You're dead!" he spat.

She chuckled. "You killed me."

Something in his stomach twisted, knotting up inside him until it ached. He had killed her. Without mercy. Just like he'd killed so many other people.

"I'm sorry," he said, unable to stop the words from leaping through his lips because it was true.

Bright eyes appeared in front of him. "You will be."

"Meg," he hissed.

"I can't touch you," she said, circling him. "As you pointed out, I'm dead."

"Then why are you here?" He looked as far to the left as he could manage. Dead demons tended to stay dead. "How are you here?" He looked over to his right. This was a magic he'd never seen before, and though he would never admit it, it scared him somewhat.

He could hear the smirk in her voice when she spoke. "I'm here because you invited me, of course."

"I did no such thing!" he shouted, the chains rattling as he furiously tried to wrench his arms free.

"You were alone."

"I like being alone!" he snapped petulantly.

"You felt lonely."

He settled back in his chair and huffed.

"You can't lie to me – I'm in your head. I'm a part of you. I know every dirty thought you've ever entertained about a certain angel I had my eye on when I was alive."

A long silence stretched between them.

"Why?" he asked eventually.

"Why did I help them?" Meg echoed. "Apart from wanting to string you up on my rack, you mean?" She chuckled darkly. "I believed in what they were fighting for. In a way I believed in them."

"Why?" he asked again.

"They knew what they wanted to do. They didn't hide behind employees while sitting at their desks drinking whiskey - they knew what they needed to do and they went out and did it. They weren't afraid to get their hands dirty."

"Those morons wouldn't stand a chance against the Leviathan! I would have—"

"The Leviathan would have killed us all!" she screamed. "You sold yourself like your father's whore. You could get them to sign all the contracts you wanted, but at the end of the day they'd have sent your smoky ass all the way back to Hell and locked the door behind you!" She took a moment to collect herself. "And because I guess, in my own twisted way, I kind of loved him."

"What… Castiel?"

"So do you."

"I don't…" Crowley choked on his words. "I don't… deserve—"

"Neither did I," Meg interrupted softly.

There was a deep clang from outside the small room, and the doors were heaved open.

"But then I guess that's not for us to decide…"

Crowley stared at the corner of the room in which Meg now stood, one finger pressed against her lips, as Castiel stepped into the room. Castiel followed his gaze across the room, but appeared not to see her. Crowley said nothing.

"Drink?" Castiel offered, waving a bottle of beer in front of him.

"Don't you have anything stronger?"

"Dean probably does, but I don't think he would be happy if I shared it with you."

"How is Dean, anyway?" Meg asked.

"How is Squirrel?"

"He would be rather annoyed to hear you call him that." Castiel took a sip of beer. "Dean is Dean. He loves too hard and worries too much."

"Dean. Now there's a man who could bend me over a table any day," Meg smirked.

"Shut up!" Crowley growled at her.

Castiel frowned at him. "You asked."

"Sometimes, when Sam wasn't looking at him, I could see occasional glimpses of Alastair in Dean's face," Meg confided. "You can't spend forty years in Hell and not have a little piece of darkness in your heart."

"You'd never know."

"Know what?" Castiel asked, looking up from his beer bottle.

"That Dean had been to Hell. You couldn't tell by looking at him."

"Yes you could."

"I mean from a human's point of view."

"Oh. No. You wouldn't. Can't," Castiel corrected himself.

Another silence stretched out between them.

"How does he do it?" Crowley asked.

"Why don't you ask Dean?"

"Because he'd probably punch me in the face."

"True," Castiel mused. He began absently picking at the corner of the label that was beginning to curl away from the glass bottle. "He feels guilty," Castiel revealed. "He hates himself for what he did, and that hatred fuels his passion to do good."

"And how do you do it? Be human, I mean, when you used to be…" Crowley trailed off.

"Powerful?" Meg offered helpfully.

Castiel looked over at the empty corner into which Crowley kept looking and shrugged. "I don't have a choice. I am what I am."

"You sound like a fortune cookie."

"I could have said, 'Accept something that you cannot change, and you will feel better.' We had Chinese takeout last night, and that was my fortune. Chinese philosophers were always very wise." Castiel suddenly got a faraway look in his eyes. "Confucius said some very philosophical things during his exile."

Meg cackled. "That's why they call him a philosopher, Clarence."

Crowley snorted in response.

"What's so funny?" Castiel asked.

Crowley shook his head, then when Castiel said nothing else, commented, "Confucius say, 'Man who walk through airport turnstile sideways going to Bangkok'."

Castiel cocked his head thoughtfully. "No. No I don't think he did say that."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "You come in here to lecture me on humanity yet you have no sense of humor."

"I didn't come to lecture you on anything. I came to offer you a drink and see in the New Year with you."

"Why?"

"Because I thought you could use the company; no-one should be alone on New Year's Eve."

"Is that some other pearl of humanity's wisdom you've come to impart on me?"

Castiel chuckled. "Yes. I suppose so. Have you thought about what do you want to come out of the new year?"

"I want to get out of these infernal chains!" Crowley spat. "I want to see that Hell-bitch burn, and… and…"

"You want to be forgiven," Castiel stated.

"No!" Crowley spat, but it was a lie. Everything was a lie, yet nothing was a lie. He didn't know who he was any more.

Castiel smiled gravely, "I want to find my place in society. I want to help people. I want… I want to find somewhere I belong. A home."

"What - this isn't 'home'?"

Castiel shook his head. "No. There are too many secrets here, and secrets only cause pain. I've learned that; it's part of being human. My New Year's resolution is not to keep any more secrets," he said decidedly. "Well," he corrected, "as few as possible"

"Aren't you a bit old and… non-human to be making New Year's resolutions?" Crowley asked.

"But I am human. And the idea of New Year's resolutions and embracing traditions is an important part of humanity. The idea that you can improve yourself, and be better. Faith. In whichever deity you believe in. In yourself."

Laughter and cheering carried down into the dungeon as the clock struck twelve, and Castiel smiled sadly. He gathered up his empty beer bottles, and Crowley's untouched one, and stopped in front of him.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he gently pressed his lips to the demon's. "Happy New Year, Crowley."