Meg raised her hand, instinctively, to block her face, and felt Jo's fist connect with the fragile bones of her hand and wrist. She heard a distressing crunch. The pain was intense, but it was, as pain always was inside a human host, merely a reaction to what was happening, and easily ignored. She could have pushed Jo away again. Hell, she could have pushed her and held her, the walked calmly back home if she'd wanted to, but what was the point? Where would she go, really? Back to the safety of her wards, to hide until the whole place rotted around her and the girl died of old age? Somewhere, deep inside, Meg gave up. Completely. A year in Crowley's hands and she hadn't broke. One month here, though? One month, and she was ready to cash it in. What did she really have that was worth sticking around for, anyway? Her only friends were hunters that clearly didn't care if she lived or died...or maybe they even hoped she would die. She was carrying a torch for a being that was the antithesis of everything she'd ever been, and he had been snatched away again before she could even deal with that.
What did she have? Nothing. Her survival instinct, the one thing that had kept her going for so long, that ever present sense of "me" was crumbling inside her. She'd stay herself though. She was loyal, even to those who didn't deserve it. She looked at the girl without blinking, her face a mess of blood, cradling what was surely a broken wrist to her chest, and waited for the next blow to fall.