Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural.
The angels are leaving, the humans are dying, and soon the spark she helped light will burn the world down. This isn't what she was promised, but it's what she expected. What they all deserve. And it really comes as no great surprise that Heaven turns out to be a lie.
"Meg," he calls her.
The name has stuck over the years, and it continues to be strange, hearing it from those lips, seeing the amusement in those eyes. She's seen out them before. She's worn that flesh, and the knowledge of how Sam Winchester's skin feels stretched across his knuckles, of how his jaw tightens when he's angry…It makes her feel closer to Him, her Lord, her Father.
"Whore," he calls her.
And maybe that's a name that will outlast the other, but he always ends it with a laugh. Just like when he strings her up and peels the skin off her back, and says, in a lover's whisper, "Sam can't stand the sight of you."
Like it's an excuse and an apology, all wrapped into one. Fair more convincing without the laugh, of course.
She isn't a fool. She knows Sam Winchester, Boy King, wouldn't tear her apart like that; she knows from experience what he sounds like when he's screaming on the inside while his lips curve into a smirk on the outside. So she imagines, with some small flicker of hope, that he's screaming for her, too, telling Him to stop. If he's still in there. If Lucifer's light hasn't burned him away.
"My child," he calls her, when he wants her to turn a blind eye. When he wants her to bring him another. Another fallen city, another slaughtered soul, another demon.
He adores his demons, but not in the way she wishes he would. At first, she told herself, those were the disloyal, or the necessary deaths, but that doesn't fit anymore.
There are fewer and fewer demons. He knows she knows. He gives her a kiss, on her forehead, sulfur on his lips, after each sacrifice. One day he tells her about souls: "I'm not destroying them, child. Just consuming. They'll live within, as close to me as they can be. Closer than you'll ever be."
Meg wants him, always, and never receives. But she doesn't want to be that close. Sounds too much like walls and chains and bars. Like Hell. She doesn't want to be in Lucifer's Heaven; it's not the one he promised her.
There are days when she considers this planet, how lonely it'll soon be. Because, eventually, Lucifer will walk in his garden, sated at last. She can stop that day from coming. She knows where they are, Dean-o and Clarence, but she doesn't drop them the tip they need, because she can't betray her prince of lies.
He's as beautiful and powerful as she ever imagined, and she'll continue to look for Heaven in a Hell of her own making, because he's her cause.
"Beloved," he calls her, the day there are no others left to call.
His crisp white suit is blinding, the blood on his shoes bold and lovely and familiar. Probably belongs to someone she once knew. As he rips her essence out of her battered host body, she can't fight him. He consumes her with a content grin on his face, like Fenrir consuming the sun.
He is Lucifer, the God of her, and she has never been closer to him.