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Kill the Lights

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Lucifer's spent enough time as a bedtime story, he can't help but have developed a certain fondness for them. Castiel, he reads like a book.

Castiel's primarily a hunk of nature writing, sure. But that does have its time and place, and interspersed as it is with harried interludes of laughably swashbuckling escapades, Lucifer almost enjoys it. Nah, he can be kinder than that: Lucifer digs it. The discordance of it. The Cas-ness.

The bits of Castiel that remember the Winchesters are overprecious and predictable. Lucifer reads these dutifully, however; like a textbook. If he's gonna pull of this guise, these are the parts he'll need. Pukeworthy, though. Honestly.

Then Castiel hands him, absently, eyes still glued to his idiotbox, a neat manila folder. There's a medical chart inside.

Strange form for an angel's memory to take, Lucifer thinks, but when he begins to read he understands why.

"Meg, my sweet," he whistles. "Didn't know you had it in ya. You either, Castiel."

Castiel hmms, doesn't look up.

Lucifer reads.




It's dark. Dean again, then. In all of Castiel's memories of Dean Winchester, the lights are out. Like they are private, and even now, all doped up, Castiel doesn't want them seen. They are special.

Even the jagged ones:

"You left her body," Castiel says; Lucifer would call his tone incredulous, but Castiel's rendition doesn't quite deserve the adjective in full. "You saw her slain by Crowley, and you just drove away. You didn't think to check? To ascertain--"

"And where the fuck were you, then?" Dean gnashes back. "I'm not here to be the human on your feathery fucking shoulder, man."

"You were her ally."

"Yeah? Well, you're supposed to be ours. So where--"

the fuck


have you been?


The accusation funnels down to nothing, like bad tape at the end of a cassette. After that it's only images. Meg's body, cold on the ground alone. Meg's body, against Castiel's. Meg's body, sitting by his bedside, reading the weekly rag as it paints its nails.

Hm, Lucifer thinks. Meg.

That could be an interesting diversion. Maybe even fruitful.




She's not as she was then. This is Hell, after all. But if Castiel doesn't stir when they shift realms, sink below God's atmosphere, he swears he jolts a bit when Lucifer strokes Meg's essence.

In Hell, she has eighteen thousand tongues and negative space for a mouth. She is very beautiful, though she has seen better days.

Father, she says. You're alive. You came.

Lucifer spreads his arms wide, like a prophet, or a rockstar. "And look who I brought for you."

You came.

You came.

You came.

Lucifer shakes Castiel out, like a rumpled coat. Covers Meg with him.

Then he says, "Of course I did. I'm not the one who abandons my children."




Lucifer lets the lights shine bright.

His light.