stilljustandrew | [Detroit!AU: the first to come was a fair maid]

Her smile is edged with malicious triumph.

"Gotcha."

She snaps her fingers, and as the second henchman and the hound in the bar below rush the stairs, the first one leaps forward, clearly meaning to throw the cloth -- now revealed to be some sort of sack or blanket-- over his head.

Stairs blocked corridor blocked no room to get past her oh frith no --

He moves a half-second too late, trying to body-block the henchman off-balance enough to avoid the cloth, hoping to get past him and run.

He's partly successful.

The henchman stumbles, and the cloth misses Andrew's head entirely, going around his arms and upper body as his assailant grapples at the his torso instead.

Snarling, 'Rex' charges from his guard position in the corridor to block the potential escape route, and the other henchman takes the rest of the stairs at a flat run, throwing himself forward to grab at Andrew's legs and lift his weight from the floor.

"Get him to the room." Meg's tone is cold and frighteningly intent. "Hold him there. Don't let him touch anything."

the room, what room, what are they --

He thrashes, heaving against the cloth binding his arms, the hard grip on his legs, and draws in breath to scream for help.

"Oh, I don't think so. We'll have none of that."

This time it isn't her elbow that makes contact. It's her fist, as she drives a short sharp punch into his gut.

A curt word sends Rex dashing ahead to keep the hallway in front of them clear, while the second hound brings up the rear, defending their flank. Meg keeps pace beside the two men carrying Andrew as they move into a section of the corridor that's in the process of being rebuilt.

There's an open doorway up ahead on the right. A second look reveals that it's open because the door that once hung there appears to have been blasted from its hinges, and is now leaning against the opposite wall.

The punch drives the air from his lungs in a single agonized rush, and he jacknifes in his captors' grip, folding around the pain.

It's probably why he doesn't realize where they're going until they're already hauling him through the splintered doorway, with its lintel twisted out of true.

"Guard," she orders the hounds, and one immediately takes up a stance in the open door, the other at the paper-patched hole in the wall.

There's a small scorch mark on the floor, at the center of what used to be inscribed circles. The two carry Andrew to that spot, then shift their positions. The second unceremoniously drops his feet to the floor, then takes a tight grasp on his right arm and shoulder as the first whips the blanket off and tosses it aside before gripping his left arm and shoulder.

Meg stalks across the floor and looks Andrew right in the eye. "There's no one left in this part of the building to hear you if you scream, but I don't want to put up with the noise. Be smart. Don't try it."

She's holding a piece of chalk in her fingers.

He pulls against the grip on his arms, without much force, testing.

"What do you want," he asks her, low and tight enough to just barely keep his voice from shaking.

Their hold on him doesn't relax in the slightest.

Meg smiles.

"What do I want? Why, you, of course."

A beat.

"You should be honored, you know. There aren't many that have His personal regard the way you do."

Andrew goes still, and very cold.

"Whose."

(He knows exactly who she means. It's all over his face.)

Meg's smile brightens. There's something almost worshipful in her eyes, but it's clear it's not for him.

"Don't be so modest," she murmurs. "You're being Called, Wells. Remember that."

Her expression hardens.

"Although you could have saved all this trouble if you'd just accepted His offer last time. Or even if you'd just come back to stand by Sam when it all started."

A beat.

"Oh, wait. I guess you didn't exactly have that option, now did you?"

Andrew's breath hisses in his teeth.

"I don't know what you think you know about that," he starts, "but --"

"You mean about how brave, noble, self-sacrificing Sammy Winchester came back to fight the good fight without you?"

Sarcasm drips from each word as she laughs in his face.

"Oh, sure, he was stubborn, I'll give him that; he held out for months, but once everything went down in Detroit ..."

Meg shrugs, and her smile is murderously delighted.

"Exactly as He planned, all along."

The building anger falls out of Andrew's face, along with most of the color.

"Came back to fight."

It's raw, and barely more than a breath.

"He fought?"

Meg stares at him.

"You didn't know?"

She shrieks with laughter, clapping her hands together as she spins around in a circle, unable to contain her rapture.

"Oh, this is just too much! Sweet little Sammy left his only sanctuary," she mocks, "trying to keep everyone safe from harm--"

She stops in place and darts a fierce grin at him.

"--and then his best friend didn't even realize what he'd done."

Andrew barely hears her. He looks more stunned than anything else.

You came back to fight. You came back to fight.

You didn't give up --

(Somewhere deep inside him, a constricted knot of grieving anger is slowly, painfully, starting to ease.)

He pulls in a ragged gulp of air, his head dropping forward as though it's suddenly too heavy to hold up, and mumbles something low and broken-sounding -- too low, in fact, to make out the words.

"What's that?"

She prances closer, bending forward a little and cupping one hand behind her ear as if to help herself hear, as she taunts,

"Come on, Andy, I know you can do better than that-- after all, I know just how loud you can scream--"

_{"...'ny hap,"} he repeats in a dragging mumble, his head still bowed.

She rolls her eyes for the benefit of the stoic two who are holding him tightly, and gives Andrew a light cuff upside his head before getting right in his face.

"When I tell you to speak up, Wells, you do it."

Andrew looks up, meeting her eyes from a distance of about two inches.

"I said," he enunciates carefully through an unpleasant smile.

"Knee. Cap."

And he lashes out with one foot, precisely aimed and with all the force he can muster.

This time her shriek is one of combined fury and pain, as her right leg crumples under her. Meg rolls away, out of reach.

Slowly, she gets back to her feet, then turns to glare at him.

Her eyes have gone entirely black.

The two holding him haven't moved; one's voiced a low snicker, and the other's tightened his grip on his arm, and that's all.

Andrew's eyes are locked on Meg, and he's still got that very fey smile.

"Made you look."

The hound stationed at the break in the wall turned at Meg's cry, and is now braced and growling at Andrew.

She silences it with a sharp gesture, and takes a deliberate step on what should be an injured leg. Then another.

One of the men shifts uncomfortably. "We can't-- he has to be--"

"I know that," Meg snaps. She's smiling again, a teeth-baring, feral smile. "He has to be intact. So that he can be used."

Two more quick steps, and she backhands Andrew across the face; not hard enough to break his neck or any other bones, but just barely.

"But I can give him something to remember me by."

The blow would knock him down if he weren't being held upright; as it is, his head rocks to one side, and he has to blink his vision clear of the burst of light that obscures it.

Blood fills his mouth from a gash on the inside of one cheek. Briefly he considers spitting it at her, but swallows instead.

"Oh, I 'member you all right," he manages.

"Good," Meg tells him. "That'll give you something to look forward to, once He's done with you."

"Kneel him," she snaps at the guards, and takes a few steps away. Meg bends to the ground, chalk in hand, and begins to trace the blackened line of the outermost circle.

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