Some of us she’d said. Some of us were dead. Meg felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. Every instinct she had, every impulse she’d followed through on, every single action she’d taken in the last 60 odd years had been about her own survival. And here she sat, from some other time, where some other decisions had potentially gotten her killed. The thought was more chilling than she wanted to admit. She had a fierce survival instinct, not exactly uncommon for her kind, but definitely honed through long years of fighting in her case. The thought of her own death was not a welcome one.
She knew it was the other woman’s turn for an answer, but she couldn’t bring herself to give one. She hardly even knew where to start in explaining what had happened in her own version of things. There was too much. Too much time had passed, too much had happened to her since she’d taken this body. At what point would they find some common ground? Her other comments were just as unanswerable. Though it wasn’t a question, the comment about Dean and not been missed. But she wasn’t going to give up that information. She was loyal, and he’d pulled her ass out of the fire more than once in the past year.
Besides that, there was a question she couldn’t help but ask, though she dreaded the answer more than she could say. She kept her expression carefully passive, her tone almost joking, almost teasing.