Song Remains the Same

Chapter 106: Hell Hath No Fury

"Fire can destroy or purify, strengthen or weaken, all depending on the nature of the material being burned.
Pain has the same effects on the human soul, and for the same reasons."
- Lance Conrad

She thought she had the routine down; she thought she was home free. It was about to be over. And now this.

"Well hi, Ariel," Meg said, tilting her head to the side as a smile slid across her lips slowly. "And just what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

Alex was struck into silence from shock. She had known much earlier that Crowley had captured Meg... but had assumed Meg would have been killed long ago. Well, she wasn't dead yet, but she didn't look far from it either.

Meg looked terrible. Her badly-dyed blonde hair was like a bird's nest all around her swollen, bruised face. Blood was dried in a trickle down the side of her head and her bare arms were crosshatched by multiple bleeding gashes, lines, and gouges. The tank top she wore was ripped and blood-splattered, one of her ears had been cut off at the lobe, and she had the word 'bitch' carved jaggedly into the skin across her collarbones. She was handcuffed in demon-hex confines and seated at the table that was in the center of the dimly-lit room. The space smelled of blood. Demon blood.

Alex swallowed, faintly sick at the aroma. She was totally unsure of how to process finding herself face-to-face with the demon who had helped her in recent times. Meg's smile wavered a little as Alex's eyes slid uncertainly to the table of torture instruments nearby. "Oh," Meg murmured, covering over what sounded like genuine surprise with sarcasm. "I get it. You're here to cut me up a little more." She smirked lazily, her scabbed face ghoulish in low light. "Yeah, I've heard about your little adventures with Crowley the past few months," she commented with insolent flair. She leaned forward, face twisting slightly. "So, on a scale of one to a jillion, how do you like being the King of Hell's bitch?"

"Well, I see you haven't changed," Alex observed wanly, markedly reluctant to do what Crowley had told her to do.

One of Meg's eyebrows shot up. "I beg to differ, Alex," she retorted. The acidic use of Alex's actual name was strange—Meg had never used it before. A cold, wounded smile grew on the demon's face. "Ya know, it's funny. I've sat here in the dark while they twisted knives into me and I thought maybe you'd show up to save my ass, not ream it some more. Well shame on me." Alex tried not to appear guilty or feel guilty... but she did on both counts. After their time together, as much as Alex may have resisted, she'd come to see the demon as a gray individual. Neither completely an enemy nor completely an ally. Meg knew that and appealed to it in near-desperation. "I might not be your family or your angel but come on! Do I really deserve to rot in here after everything I did for you?!"

Alex contemplated the demon tensely for a long moment. Her hand was forced. It didn't matter what Meg deserved or didn't deserve.

"You shouldn't have gotten caught," she replied quietly after a minute, regret making her grim and artless. "I'm sorry. There wasn't anything I could do, Meg." Alex went to the table of torture instruments and looked at all those wicked objects with a turning stomach. This was awful and necessary. "Still isn't."

Meg was wounded and silent for a stung beat. Then she scoffed. "If my name was Sam or Dean or Castiel, it'd be a whole different story," she muttered, then plastered a false smile across her face. "Well?" She waited, trying to look like she didn't care. "Hit me with your best shot. At least you're prettier than the last demon who cut into me. Makes the agony a teeny weeny less unbearable. But hey, why don't you start with my back? Seems fitting." The demon's dark eyes glittered balefully at Alex, who had just selected a jagged silver knife.