Taking it all in, Meg kept her expression carefully neutral. Yes, if she’d had to choose, she definitely would stick with her own life over this other version of her. A few years on the run before finding Dean seemed a great deal preferable to cozying up to the Winchesters and an angel of all things, then getting killed for it.
“I never caught his name,” she said, thinking back to the day she’d heard about Sam making it out of the cage. “Never asked. Wasn’t exactly any of my business and the last thing I wanted was to be on Heaven’s radar.” She hadn’t wanted to be on anyone’s radar, though the thought of taking Crowley down had occupied her fantasies for at least the first 50 years. Only in recent memory had she started to think less about revenge and more about her own survival. Though the idea had crossed her mind when she and Dean had finally gotten over fighting with each other, it had never been a real option. She was content to stay alive for the time being. She was her own cause.
“I could have used a drink for this conversation,” she said offhand. “It’s your turn to ask, gorgeous.” She shot her double a wink. If you couldn’t appreciate your own face, you couldn’t appreciate anything, and though she could note the subtle differences between them, they were still the same, deep down. She wondered just how deep. She wondered, if push came to shove in this strange place, would she even be able to count on this woman to be on her side of things. She wasn’t so sure, but she didn’t begrudge her the right to be on the opposite side. She had no way of knowing what kind of loyalties she had.