Nineteen

It took another day to reach the hospital in which Sam was being kept. They stopped to eat and use the bathroom once, and were on their way again as quickly as possible. They parked once reaching the hospital, and got out of the car, but immediately, something was wrong.

"Oh, gracious," Emmanuel breathed staring across the street at the hoard of demons hanging around outside.

Ruth saw them too, and held Emmanuel's hand, squeezing hard. Her reaction to the last violent demon she had encountered, the one that had attacked her in Daphne's kitchen, suggested to her that she was not a runner. She was a fighter. But right then, she didn't feel much like fighting. In fact, she did not want to be here at all. It was selfish of her to think this way, but she only wanted to return to Daphne, to curl up in bed with Emmanuel, to sit and read by the window, to go to church on Sunday. It had never occurred to her that she or Emmanuel would run into someone who had known them from before they had lost their memories, and now that they stood there in the rainy dark, staring at all the demons that barred their way into the hospital, she wished she had never met Dean. Rather, that she had never re-met him.

Emmanuel heard her thoughts, felt her squeeze his hand, and he squeezed her own hand in return. He shared her sentiments, at least a little, but he, more than she, wanted to know who he had been. He had always been the one among them to feel that he had done something terrible in his past, and he had always been the one to want to know what it had been. He had worked so hard to make up for whatever it was that he had done that was so wrong. Now that he was here, if he could cure Sam's mind—which he, apparently, had been the one to break—then he would. Maybe that, breaking Sam's mind, had been the big, awful thing that he had done. Maybe he could finally fix everything and stop feeling so guilty for something he did not even remember doing.

Ruth took a deep breath and accepted that he was going to do whatever it took to fix Sam. And maybe after he did… they could return to Daphne's home and go back to their life.

Emmanuel smiled, just a little. "I would like that," he murmured.

Ruth became aware of the wedding ring on her finger, squeezed in Emmanuel's hand at the moment. It had become her habit to twist and twist the ring around her finger in times of stress, or when she was thinking deeply about something. She felt the urge to do it now. Emmanuel felt the urge coming from her and squeezed her hand, tightly.

Whatever was to happen in the future, right now they had demons to deal with.

Emmanuel sighed deeply, eyes flicking from demon to demon. He understood, without having to talk about it, what he needed to do. Before the demon had attacked Ruth in Daphne's house, he had not been aware of the power he had to smite these creatures. It made sense, considering that he was an angel, but he had, previously, spent so much time focused on healing others that the idea of killing someone, or something, bothered him. Whatever he had done in his past, the memory that was eluding him, had been violent; he knew that much. Now he was about to go down and murder multiple demons… as well as the human vessels containing them. He took a deep breath. God forgive me, he prayed.

Dean and Meg had been watching him. "What are you thinking?" Dean asked the angel, his voice slow and cautious, as if afraid of the answer.

Emmanuel lifted his head and looked at Dean over his shoulder. "I'll be back," he said, letting go of Ruth's hand. He began to walk down the hill towards the hospital. Ruth, as if pulled along by an invisible tether, began to follow him. He turned back towards her, cupping her face in his hands. "Stay here," he said, his voice gentle, quiet, loving. Right then, in that moment, he was still Emmanuel. But when he went down to face the demons, he would have to become Castiel.

"You come back to me," Ruth said, fiercely, and she knew that he knew what she meant. She was not worried about him dying; she knew the extent of the power that flowed through his veins. She worried that, were he to return to being Castiel, and to become Castiel in order to commit such a terrible act of violence, that any vestiges of Emmanuel—dear, sweet, soft Emmanuel—would be wiped away.

He looked down at her sadly, and then pressed his forehead against hers. "I'll try," he murmured. He released her face and turned away again, moving resolutely towards the hospital. Towards the demons. Towards fate.

Ruth stood and watched, helplessly.

Behind her, she heard Dean say, "This ain't gonna go well."

"I don't know," Meg replied, "I believe in the little tree topper."

Ruth clenched her right hand into a fist, and spun her wedding band around on her finger with her left thumb. Her heart rate increased.

Emmanuel grabbed hold of the first demon by the shirt and yanked him forward, pressing his palm to the creature's forehead. Light poured from its eyes and mouth as it died.

Unaware of what was going on around her, Ruth fell to the ground, clutching her head in her hands. Memories began to flow into her mind, blinding her to the outside world.

She sat tied to a chair in a warehouse, surrounded by demons. And there was Castiel. And Castiel was light, and life, and beauty, and destruction. Terrifying and wonderful.

"You can see me," he said—

There he was again, running beside her at Bobby's house, taking off like a rocket to show her how fast he could run—

There he was, saving her from herself, from a nightmare she had had. Telling her they could not be what she wanted. Kissing her, anyways.

A thousand-thousand memories, big and small flowed into her.

The ecstasy of Castiel flowing into her body, leaving behind a piece of himself. A part of his Grace.

Small smiles, touches, the Apocalypse. Watching in horror as Castiel exploded, on the field with Lucifer. The joy she felt when she saw him returned to life.

The year she spent without him. The strangeness within him when he returned, the secrets they kept. The secrets.

Oh, God.

The souls. All those souls. The awful, terrible thing that Castiel had done, absorbing all the souls of Purgatory, thinking himself the new God; being controlled by the Leviathans in his body…

That day, at the reservoir.

And all that time, Ruth—Brooke—had known. She had known, and said nothing. She could have stopped it. She could have stopped all of it, maybe, if she had just told Sam and Dean. And she had done nothing. She had placed blind faith in Castiel, even after he had begun to show signs of hubris, fits of anger and impatience. She had been complicit. She'd been an accomplice to his crimes…

Slowly, slowly, she returned to herself. She clutched her head between her fingers, pulling her body inward. She realized she was crying. She felt the gravel in her knees, the cold air on her skin. She sucked in breath after breath. A pair of legs appeared at her side, and she looked up in surprise to see that it was Meg. Meg who did not look at her, did not touch her or offer words of comfort. But she stood beside her, nonetheless.

Another pair of legs appeared. The angel whose name she no longer knew (Emmanuel? Castiel?) gently pulled her to her feet. The gentleness, at least, was still there, in the way he touched her, if not in his face. For they had both remembered who they were, and Castiel, now, was wracked by guilt. The weight of it crushed him, and he wanted nothing more than to flee, but not without the woman who shared part of his Grace, the woman with whom he had lived as husband and wife for the past six months. They were both guilty, and they would both go far away, and live with their guilt, together.

"That was beautiful, Clarence," Meg said, breaking them both out of their terrible thoughts.

"Cass?" Dean asked, voice full of hesitance and worry.

Emmanuel—no—Castiel did not immediately look at Dean. "I remember you," he said, his voice harsh, his face grim. He stared down at Ruth—Brooke—but he did not truly see her. Finally, he looked up and faced the man whom he had betrayed so completely. "I remember everything." He looked down and away, his eyes beginning to water.

Brooke, who also remembered everything, knew how difficult it was for Castiel to work up enough emotion to even come close to crying. She stared up at him sadly, her hands on his chest, as he tried to gather himself.

"What I did," Castiel murmured. "What I became." He glanced up at Dean again, and his voice, now, came out as a growl. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because Sam is dying in there—

"Because of me," Castiel snapped, emphasizing each word, his voice rising to match the emotions beginning to boil inside him. Anger, disgust, self-hatred.

Brooke began to cry again, softly, for she knew there was nothing she could do or say to help him with this, nor could she help herself. She said nothing because she felt the same feelings, the same self-hatred. In saying nothing, doing nothing to stop Castiel from becoming the monster that he had, she might as well have been the one to absorb all those souls… to kill all those priests and healers… to kill all those angels… to release the Leviathans.

"Everything," Castiel continued. "All these people…" He shook his head. "I shouldn't be here." He began to walk, briskly, away.

Brooke followed, as she always did.

"Cass," Dean called. "Cass!"

Neither of them stopped at his call.

Dean came after them both, stumbling along the hill with them both. "If you remember, then you know you did the best you could at the time." He was speaking to both of them, both Castiel's actions and Brooke's complacency.

"Don't defend me," Castiel said, refusing to slow down. "Do you have any idea the death toll in Heaven? On Earth?" Finally, the angel stopped and turned to face the man. "We didn't part friends, Dean."

Dean stared at Castiel, then at Brooke, then back at Castiel. "So what?" he asked, and he sounded tired.

"I deserved to die," Castiel said.

And Brooke, despite all that she had just remembered, all that she knew, stared up at Castiel and began to slowly shake her head.

Dean stared silently at Castiel, as well, and he didn't exactly look like he disagreed.

"Now, I can't possibly fix it," the angel said, "so why did I even walk out of the reservoir?"

"Maybe to fix it," Dean answered.

Castiel turned away.

Brooke placed a hand on her arm, feeling at once like she wanted to throw herself off the nearest cliff, and kneel at the feet of the angel before her. Torn, she simply stood and touched his arm and stared into his face.

"Wait," Dean said, and turned to the car that they had drove to the hospital in.

Vaguely, Brooke wondered where the Impala was.

Dean opened the trunk and pulled something out of it. In his hands he held Castiel's trench coat. He had kept it, all this time.

Castiel stared down at it, at a loss for words, and slowly took it from Dean's hands.

###

Brooke stood quietly beside Castiel as the angel—her husband—explained to Dean that he could not rebuild the wall in Sam's mind.

Dean leaned against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. "So, you're saying there's nothing? That he's gonna be like this until his candle blows out?"

"I'm sorry," Castiel said, shaking his head. "This isn't a problem I can make disappear. And you know that."

They all stared at Sam for a moment.

A glimmer of an idea lit up in Castiel's mind. Brooke felt it. She felt it, and she hated it, and she knew it was the only way. She would give anything to see Sam healed from this awful mess… But the thought of that.

No, she told him, automatically, though her resolve was weak.

It's the only way, he replied.

"No!" she yelled, loudly, sharply, and gripped him by the collar of his trench coat.

He gripped her face in both hands, just as tightly. His fingers dug into her face. "It is… the only… way," he repeated, slowly, emphatically. And you know I would deserve this, he added in his mind, so that only she could hear.

"Hey, hey!" Dean said. "What the hell are you two talking about?"

Brooke, who knew that there would be no talking Castiel out of this, tried, anyways. She tried, even as her conscience told her that Sam was more important, that Sam did not deserve what had happened to him, that Sam deserved his life, his old life.

"You are my husband," she hissed. "Just because we remember who we are… it doesn't erase the last six months. I told you to come back to me, Emmanuel."

Castiel closed his eyes for a moment, at the name. "You know we can never…"

Hot tears leaked from her eyes. "Why not?" she asked, but her spirit had broken. She was too tired, it was too much, and she knew that he would not give in. "You don't know what it will do to you."

"I'm an angel," Castiel murmured. "If Sam can take it, insane or not, then I can."

Brooke was nodding, slowly, beginning to accept the inevitable. "Just tell me… that I am still your wife. That the last six months don't suddenly mean nothing to you, now that you remember."

He gazed at her sadly, but somewhere in all that dark depression, there was a glimmer of love for her. "You and I are bonded far beyond matrimonial ties," he said. "But yes, you are my wife. I still see you as such. I will always see you, know you, as my wife." He brought his head down to hers.

Brooke breathed him in—one, two, three, four, five—and then released him.

Castiel looked down at her. "I cannot be mentally connected to you while I do this," he said, sadly. "It could make me insane, kill me, I don't know. And I won't let that happen to you."

"You know I deserve this as much as you do," she argued.

He sighed. "Perhaps, yes, but I won't let this be your punishment."

Brooke took a shaky breath and nodded.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Castiel began to pull away from her mind. The last time he had done this had been the night they had argued right before going after Eve. That seemed like a lifetime ago, now. Back then, he had pulled away from her all at once, and she'd blacked out. This time, he did it as delicately as he could. It still hurt like hell, but the pain was more emotional than physical.

Eventually, her head was empty, devoid of him, and she was left alone with only herself. He closed the door to his mind, so that when she tried to reach out to him, she felt nothing. She burst into tears completely and sank to the floor in despair. Empty… she was empty. She could not hear that constant choir of Enochian in the background of her mind; she could not tell what he was feeling, could not sense those quiet, wordless emotions.

Still, even with her eyes closed against the tears and the pain, she could sense him in the room. Even without their mental connection, the Grace in her blood sang in tune with the Grace inside him. She clung to that feeling, for it was all she had left.

"What the hell is going on?" Dean asked, his voice urgent, confused.

Castiel went and sat down on Sam's bed. He turned and looked at Dean, saying, "It's better this way. I'll be fine."

"Wait, Cass, what are you doing?" Dean asked. He turned to Brooke. "What is he doing?"

Brooke opened her mouth to explain, but Castiel was speaking to Sam in a loud voice.

"Now, Sam, this may hurt. And if I can't tell you again, I'm sorry I ever did this to you." He placed his hand upon Sam's forehead and began to draw the insanity of Hell into himself.

Immediately, his Grace began to pulse faster and faster, the pitch higher and higher. This happened when he was fighting, or in danger, or angry; like a heartbeat. The pulses grew more and more erratic. Around her, there was noise and motion. Sam sat up in bed and Dean went to him and there were words spoken, but Brooke was somewhere far away, fighting the Grace that wanted nothing more than to tear her to pieces. Even without the ability to see and hear exactly what was going on in Castiel's head, she could tell that something was very, very wrong.

The angel had gotten up and backed into the wall, staring at Sam as if he were a monster. Brooke had never, ever seen Castiel react to something like that, react as if he were a small, helpless child. She wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch him, hold him, but in so doing, she might shatter the mental barrier—the only thing that was preventing her from going insane, too. She needed to get out of the room, to get away from Castiel, or she might be driven insane merely from the feel of the Grace in her body shaking, sparking, tearing at her insides, fighting some invisible threat.

She pulled herself up off the floor and stumbled from the room. It was a strange sensation, for the farther she moved away from him, the better she felt, physically; yet, she wanted nothing more than to run back into the room, to hold him, to rip Lucifer from his mind, to protect the angel who had spent so much time protecting her. But she knew there was nothing she could do. To touch him would be disastrous. If there was any hope of saving him, she needed to keep her own faculties.

She found herself outside, near the car. Meg was nearby, hanging around, and she wandered up to Brooke. "Something happen to Clarence?" she asked, trying to sound casual, but Brooke knew better.

She explained what had happened to Castiel, avoiding looking at Meg to give the demon some semblance of a private reaction to the news. Brooke knew that Meg had some kind of feelings for Castiel; whether those feelings were anything more than physical attraction, she was not sure, but she assumed it had to be more than that, or she would not have stuck around this long. Brooke also knew that she and Meg shared a strange, if distant, bond, because Brooke had once helped to save her life, connecting their minds together to figure out where she was being held and tortured.

Meg stood quietly after she was given the news of Castiel's mental condition. Brooke leaned against the car, waiting for Sam and Dean to come out. They appeared a few minutes later and made their way to the car. Sam looked like hell, but at least Lucifer wasn't hanging out in his head anymore.

"Hey, guys," Dean said, coming up to Brooke and Meg. "Look, Cass is… he's not taking it well." He glanced at Brooke. "Did you tell Meg?"

Brooke nodded.

"Right, so…" Dean sighed. "Look, I don't know what to do with him. We can't take him with us—not in his condition. But we can't just leave him there, by himself. He's an angel. The humans working there won't know what the hell is up with him…"

"I'll stay," Brooke and Meg said, at the same time.

They turned and stared at one another.

Brooke's immediate instinct was to tell Meg to go fuck herself, but she was too tired, and she knew that Meg was not your run of the mill demon. She sighed, and nodded silently. The second-best person to watch over Castiel was someone who understood angels, and even if Meg was a demon, she was not ignorant about her celestial opposites. Besides, Meg didn't sleep, and that would be helpful.

Sam and Dean were watching the two of them, and Dean looked very uncomfortable. "Meg, you don't need to—

"Of course I don't," the demon interrupted him. "So what?"

Dean studied her for a moment, then turned to Brooke. "And you're fine with this?"

Brooke sighed deeply, slowly. "Meg knows that if she ever hurts Castiel, I will hunt her down, and kill her slowly and painfully." She said the words flatly, as a fact, without looking at the demon.

"Kinky," Meg said, but did not argue.

Dean glared at Meg for a moment longer, then sighed. "Fine. Call us if Cass gets better, or…" Or worse, he was thinking, and they all knew it, but none of them said it.

"I don't have a phone anymore," Brooke said. She had put her cellphone into a drawer back at Daphne's house, without ever charging it, and had long ago forgotten about it.

Dean rolled his eyes and pulled one of his out of his coat pocket. "Use this one," he said, handing it to her.

There was an awkward pause.

"Listen," Brooke began. "I'm sorry—

Dean shook his head, putting his hands up. "No time," he said, "and I don't care. Look, I'm angry at both of you. Cass went off the deep end and you just… you said nothing, to any of us."

"I know."

"But we're past that, because we don't have time to hash that out, okay?"

Brooke nodded, moving away from the car so that Dean could get into the driver's side. She thought of something, all of a sudden, and flinched. "H-how's Bobby?" she asked, wondering secretly if he was angry at her for all the secrets she had kept for Castiel.

Dean, his hand on the door handle, stopped dead. Sam, who had been halfway around to the passenger side, also stopped.

Immediately, Brooke's heart dropped into her stomach. "What happened to him?" she whispered, her heart pounding already.

Dean did not turn to face her, and Sam could not meet her eyes.

"He's dead," Dean said, and then he got into the car and slammed the door shut.

Sam quickly got into the passenger side and they were gone in seconds, tires screeching loudly.

Brooke stood and watched the car disappear in the dark, holding herself. She could feel herself slipping into a complete mental breakdown, between everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours. She and Castiel had gained their memories back, and remembered what terrible thing they had done; Castiel had absorbed Sam's Hell insanity and gone insane himself; and now she knew that Bobby was dead. Bobby, the man who had taken her into his home so long ago, when Castiel had so unceremoniously dropped her off on his front porch. Bobby, who had been the closest thing to a father she had ever known.

Dead.

Meg stood beside her for a few minutes, but soon turned and went into the hospital.

Brooke stayed where she was, staring into the darkness, feeling her mind slowly fracture.