Twenty-eight
Their search for Metatron led them in a strange direction. After Castiel's rather abrupt meeting with an angel at a cemetery, Castiel realized that Metatron wasn't the problem they needed to be solving right then. It was Bartholomew. The angel that Castiel had spoken to had called Bartholomew… "the monster." That, by itself, was enough to set Brooke's teeth on edge.
As the two of the made their way away from the cemetery, two angels appeared out of nowhere, each grabbing one of them. Castiel fought, at first, as did Brooke, but the moment they saw that the other was caught, they gave up, unwilling to put their spouse in more danger by struggling.
"Our boss has been looking for you, Castiel," said one of the angels, smiling wickedly. "And we know enough by now to know that wherever you go… the Whore goes."
Castiel attempted to lunge at him, anger flooding his system as, once again, someone called his wife a whore, but the angel holding him shoved his blade against his neck.
Calm, Brooke said to him—something he often said to her. She wanted, desperately, to reach out with the Grace in her body and touch him, but it would not be the same as it had when their Graces had matched. It still felt ugly.
Brooke and Castiel were led away, to have a talk with Bartholomew.
###
Brooke sat beside her husband on a very uncomfortable leather couch as they waited for Bartholomew to show up. They waited, and waited, and Brooke could feel her ass going numb the longer they sat there.
"How much longer?" Castiel demanded of the angel standing watch over them.
The angel, inhabiting someone who looked like he could be sixteen—though the suit made him look older—raised an eyebrow at him. "You have some place to be?"
Castiel sighed and went back to staring at the wall.
The door opened a moment later and Bartholomew entered the room. Castiel and Brooke both stood up, and Brooke had to force herself to be calm, even though her fingers itched to fight.
Bartholomew stared first at Castiel, then down at Brooke, his expression cold, but otherwise unreadable. "Their blades," he said.
The two of them slowly handed their blades over. Bartholomew took one, and the guard in the room took the other, and they put them inside their suit jackets.
"Standard security protocol," Bartholomew explained, calmly. "Can't be too careful these days."
"Hello, Bartholomew," Castiel said.
The angel smiled at him, saying his name, and pulled him into a hug.
Every muscle in Brooke's body went taut, but she remained where she was.
"It has been too long," Bartholomew said, and then smiled down at Brooke. "And you must be… Brooke."
Brooke resisted the urge to make some snarky comment about how surprised she was that he knew her name, and didn't just call her Whore. "Yes," she said, shortly.
"Have a seat, both of you," he said, not seeming to notice her tone.
Castiel and Brooke sat back down on the couch.
Bartholomew sat across from them, leaning his elbows on his knees.
…
"Madness, wasn't it?" Bartholomew said, smiling at Castiel. They'd been reminiscing about old times for the last ten minutes. "A puny force of twenty behind enemy lines, launching an incursion against Raphael and his loyalists."
Brooke had said nothing, leaning back against the couch, one leg folded over the other, listening. It was strange for her to hear about this side of Castiel, a side she had never quite forgotten about, but had put behind her long ago. This was during the year that he had worked with Crowley, to open the doors to Purgatory.
Castiel did not seem to relish the conversation, either, but was keeping things polite. "It was a calculated risk," he said.
"I thought you'd gone insane, and I questioned your leadership, second-guessed every step of the campaign." Bartholomew's voice had grown serious. "But you were my commander. I held my tongue. I followed orders. Raphael fled."
Castiel gave a very small smile, nodding.
"Most of his loyalists were dead, or captured. Your gambit paid off… You won."
"We won," Castiel corrected.
"Word of your victory spread," Bartholomew continued, without seeming to have heard him. You got called back to the Garrison. You became the great Castiel… while I stayed behind, just a grunt."
Something inside of her husband shifted, and Brooke glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He was smiling, but it was a false smile.
"You… gained a reputation for yourself, as well," he said, staring at his feet. "The captives I left in your care… You tortured and killed them." He lifted his gaze to stare Bartholomew down.
Any semblance of a pleasant conversation flew out the window as an icy chill seemed to settle in the air, instead. "I was ordered to kill those captives," Bartholomew said, leaning forward toward Castiel. "You've been flying solo for so long, you've forgotten that's what angels do. We follow orders."
Castiel shook his head, just a little, another small smile twisting his mouth. "Not you, though." He sniffed, glancing at the guards in the room. "Not anymore."
Bartholomew stood up—Brooke uncrossed her legs and sat up straighter—and stared down at the angel in the trench coat. "That's right," he snapped. "I give them."
Castiel did not stand up, but his icy gaze was enough of a challenge in its own right.
Still, Bartholomew seemed to want to keep the charade going. He calmed himself after a moment, and invited the two of them downstairs. Understanding that they had no choice in the matter, they followed after him as he left the room with the uncomfortable leather couch.
"Realizing that they were more trouble than they were worth, we purged our human allies, then commandeered Boyle Ministries, Inc. for our own use," he explained.
"Buddy Boyle," Castiel said, remembering hearing about the name from a case that Sam and Dean had worked months ago. "So, you killed him."
"No. We made him and his colleagues vessels—at least, those who didn't go pop."
Castiel paused as followed Bartholomew, shocked by the recognition of one of the guards. The guard was giving him a dirty look.
Bartholomew seemed to notice the tension in him. "You nervous, Castiel?" he asked, softly, dangerously. He was smiling.
"Your followers want me dead," Castiel said. "I'm not entirely certain you don't, too."
Bartholomew only smiled more. "If I wanted you dead—you or your whore—then you'd be dead." He turned his gaze on Brooke for a moment, staring into her, probing at her with his Grace.
She stared him down as the Grace inside her threw up walls around her mind, protecting her from the angel.
Castiel, feeling the way Bartholomew had just poked at his wife, held her by the wrist, shielding her with his body, stepping in front of her. "You and I," he said, trying to distract him, "we're friends here?"
"Yes."
"And Brooke and I are free to go?"
"Of course," Bartholomew said, sounding offended by the suggestion that he would keep them there against their will. "Though, I don't know why you would. What's out there for you, Castiel? What do you really expect to accomplish on your own? You'll never find Metatron that way."
Castiel's mind spun. "How'd you know about Metatron?"
"I figured that's why you were pursuing Rebecca, engaging with her followers," he explained, referring to Castiel's meeting with the angel in the cemetery. That angel had been there, watching a funeral taking place. Rebecca had taken that human as a vessel, and when the vessel had died, so had she.
"We have different methods, Cass, but we want the same thing—to find Metatron and restore our kind to Heaven."
Brooke walked with her husband, shoulder-to-shoulder. She found it sort of disgusting that an angel like Bartholomew would use Castiel's nickname.
"Then why kill Rebecca and her followers?" Castiel demanded. "They're no threat to you—
"Perhaps. But better to nip a fledgling faction in the bud than let it grow into a bigger threat down the road. A drop of blood to save a gallon."
"I don't agree," Castiel growled. They had stopped walking and he was staring Bartholomew down again.
"I'm not asking you to," the angel said. "I will outrace Malachi in the hunt for Metatron, and I will certainly outrace you on your own. But if you can set aside your qualms about methods for one second, there's no reason the two—the three of us can't take him down." Bartholomew glanced at Brooke as if suddenly remembering she was there.
Cass, we can't trust this guy, she said. He's nuts.
I know, Castiel replied. But I'm suspecting we've been led into a trap. There are too many angels here for us to fight our way out, and I don't trust Bartholomew to let us out like he says he will.
…
Brooke stood in front of the massive set of computer screens in another part of the taken-over church. Pictures of Metatron's face and maps of his last-known locations were spread over the electronics.
"With this kind of information, I'd lure Metatron out," Castiel said, leaning down to click on something.
Bartholomew smiled. "I knew you'd be an asset," he said. "No one's as motivated as you to take him down. I've had my hands so full with the factions, it's distracted me from the real goal. But with you by my side—the new boss and the ultimate rebel working together—think of the message that would send to would-be dissidents. They'd finally understand that resistance is futile. Think of the bloodshed that we could avert… what a united angel-kind could accomplish in Heaven… elsewhere."
Elsewhere, Brooke thought, shivering. He wants to take over the Earth.
Castiel silently acknowledged her worry, afraid of even looking at her, lest Bartholomew notice their glances.
The doors suddenly burst open behind them, and Brooke spun around to see a man—an angel—being dragged into the room by two guards. He had a bag on over his head. The guards dropped him unceremoniously onto the ground, and then stepped back, waiting.
Bartholomew stepped forward with a sadistic smile and roughly yanked the bag off of the angel's head, holding an angel blade to his throat.
"Bart, what are you doing?" Castiel asked, concern clear in his tone.
"What needs to be done," the angel replied, looking up at him. "I'm gonna torture the rebel, find out what he knows, then kill him. And you're going to help."
…
Brooke stood off to the side, her arms crossed over her chest, as Bartholomew continued to torture the poor angel. Flashes of memories kept popping into her head, mostly of Samandriel, when they had gone to rescue him. All that screaming… The Grace in her blood kept rising up inside her, wanting to lash out at Bartholomew, to kill every angel in this place and get herself and her husband the fuck out of here. But she knew that would accomplish nothing. She would simply be killed for trying.
"Can't you see that he's telling the truth?" Castiel begged the madman. "He's done."
"Yes, I believe he is," came Bartholomew's voice. Footsteps. "Now finish him off."
Brooke turned, breathing hard, to see her husband holding the angel blade.
No, she said.
"Bartholomew, it doesn't need to be like this," Castiel said.
"Get your head out of the sand. Do you know why they brought you back from the battlefield? The truth?"
"Yes, I know the truth—
"Our leaders wanted those captives killed, and they knew you'd stand in the way of their order. Said you didn't have it in you. That you couldn't do what needed to be done."
You're better than him, Castiel, Brooke told her husband. You did the right thing, telling Bartholomew not to kill them.
"But I know different," the crazed angel continued. "I know you've changed."
"I'm not a murderer," Castiel argued.
"You weren't—not then. But since then, you've slaughtered thousands of angels." Bartholomew came to stand behind Eliah, the angel being held captive, bound to a chair. "You killed Malachi's man for his Grace."
"Who I was, what I did," Castiel said, "that's not who I am."
"No?" Bartholomew asked, coming toward him. "Then what are you? I want to work with you, Castiel, but I need proof." He motioned to the guards. "They need prove that they were wrong."
You are good, Brooke told her husband, still standing in the corner of the room, afraid she'd be held back if she tried to get closer to him. You are good and worthy, and strong.
"They need proof that you can do what has to be done," Bartholomew said, turning back to look at Eliah. He turned to Castiel again. "This has to be done."
No, Brooke told her husband. You are better than Bartholomew.
"I was never free to leave," Castiel said, suddenly, with an unamused smile. "My only choice was to obey or be killed." He flipped the knife around in his hand and offered it to Bartholomew. "Well, I choose."
"No," Brooke said, aloud. You can't leave me.
"Let my wife go," Castiel said.
"Well, I am truly sorry to hear that," Bartholomew said, and then turned, suddenly, and killed Eliah.
"No!" Castiel yelled, rushing forward, but was held by the guards. It was too late, anyway.
Brooke had had enough of standing in the corner. She came forward to stand beside her husband. No one stopped her, perhaps thinking her presence wasn't anything to worry about.
"As your refusal makes perfectly clear," Bartholomew said, "you always thought you were better than me."
You are, Brooke told her husband, silently.
Bartholomew spun around, dropping the angel blade, and loosened his tie.
Oh fuck.
"Shall we put your superiority to the test, once and for all?" he asked.
Brooke began to shake, the Grace in her blood rising again. Cass—
Bartholomew reared back and punched Castiel in the face.
Castiel remained standing, and straightened back up, after only a second. "No," he growled.
Bartholomew punched him again.
Brooke lunged for him, wanting to tear the eyes from his skull, to rip his hair out at the roots. She felt herself held back by her husband.
"No!" he commanded, and pulled her away from the dickwad standing there, smirking down at her. He continued to hold onto her as she struggled. No, Brooke.
But still, she struggled.
Brooke! Castiel grabbed her chin in his hand and stared down into her eyes, his lips a grim line, nostrils flaring, eyes icy and intense. He had not looked at her like this, outside of the bedroom, in a long time. You will calm yourself, he ordered. If we don't do this right, we could both die.
Brooke, breathing heavily, stared up into her husband's eyes, and felt that compulsion to obey him, to do whatever he told her to do, because he was Castiel. He was an angel of the Lord. He was her savior, and her master, and her husband. Some part of her twenty-first-century upbringing fought against such old-fashioned thinking, but she knew that he would never have played this card unless it was dire, and she knew she was being stupid, putting herself, and him, in danger, with this outburst.
She nodded, jerkily, and stumbled off back to the corner, dimly aware, and amazed by the fact that everyone else in the room had even let that whole thing play out.
Castiel turned back to Bartholomew like nothing had happened. "Angels fighting angels has to stop somewhere," he said. "Might as well stop with me."
"Fine," Bartholomew whispered, and turned away. He whipped back around with the angel blade in his hand, and Castiel reached up and caught his arm, struggling.
"Stand down!" the crazed angel yelled to his guards, who had begun to come forward. "This is between me and the rebel."
Brooke wanted, with every fiber of her being, to defend her husband, but she did not want to get in his way or distract him. She stood where she was, her hands clenched into fists.
The guards moved away as Castiel continued to hold Bartholomew's hand at bay. As the blade slowly inched closer to his throat, he suddenly slipped out from the angel's grasp and took hold of the blade. Now their roles were reversed. Castiel stood behind Bartholomew, aiming the blade at his throat, holding him with his other hand.
Bartholomew chuckled. "To the victor," he said. Then, "Do it." Kill me.
"No," said Castiel, and threw the angel to the ground.
Bartholomew landed hard, on his knees, and stayed down. "What are you now?" he asked. "A penitent?"
"I'm no—
"You're not nothing!" Brooke yelled, aloud, staring at her husband from across the room. The guards seemed startled by her second outburst in the last five minutes, but they did not move toward her to subdue her at all.
Castiel inhaled sharply, still grim-faced from the short-lived battle, if it could be called that. "I'm… just Castiel," he corrected.
Better, Brooke said.
"You never did understand, Castiel," Bartholomew panted, from the floor. "There can be no peace without bloodshed."
Cass sighed, threw the blade to the floor, and beckoned for Brooke. "We're leaving," he said.
She began to move toward him. Bartholomew slowly rose from the floor, reaching into his coat.
Cass, she thought, without needing to verbalize the rest.
Castiel turned, quickly, as Bartholomew lunged, throwing the angel off balance. He grabbed his angel blade, twisting it around in Bartholomew's own hand, and made him stab himself in the gut. Bartholomew died in a scream and an explosion of light, and Castiel released him so that his body crumpled to the floor.
Brooke came to her husband, shaking, but otherwise all right.
Castiel took a moment, as he always did, to touch her face with a hand, check on her, look into her eyes. Thank you, he said, only to her. You would have killed him to save my life—I know. Then he turned toward the door.
One of the guards threw his hand out to stop them from leaving.
"Let us pass," Castiel said, tiredly, all the fight having gone out of him.
Slowly, the guard lowered his arm. Castiel began to walk through the door, but Brooke went back and picked up an angel blade off the floor and shoved it into her coat.
Angels suck, she said, by way of explanation.
Castiel said nothing, and they walked through the doors, unhindered.
###
Brooke stood beside her husband as he faced the grave of the woman who had been Rebecca's vessel, the angel who had created the faction of the penitents. The ones who were non-violent. Bartholomew had killed her, just because he could, because he thought her weak for choosing not to fight.
"I'm sorry I created this chaos," Castiel was saying. "Sorry I couldn't do more to fix it. You may have lost the war, Rebecca, but you tried a new way. You have my respect for that."
Brooke spun, suddenly, at the approach of three angels, blade in hand. She was tired and angry and wasn't in the mood to deal with any angel who was not her husband.
The angel who was closest to them put his hands up to show that he was unarmed. "I didn't come to fight," he said, approaching slowly. He was one of the guards that had been with Bartholomew.
Brooke glanced at her husband, wondering what a guard was doing here if he claimed he didn't want to fight. She still gripped the blade tightly in her hand, but she lowered her arm.
"When I fell," said the angel, "I thought I had no choice, but yesterday, you showed me that there is a choice. And I choose you."
Brooke swelled with pride for her husband, even as he shied away from the angel.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm no leader."
"Yes, you are," said Brooke, and the angel, at the same time.
Brooke glanced at him, smiling out of the corner of her mouth.
He dipped his head in acknowledgement of her. "if you will have me, Castiel… a-and Brooke… I will follow you. Both of you."
"What, me?" Brooke asked, shaking her head. "No, my husband will lead."
Castiel looked down, his mind tumbling over itself.
"I am not the only one," said the angel, stepping aside to bring into view the two others that Brooke had sensed earlier.
Castiel stared between him and the others, then turned, fully, and stared at his wife. Brooke, I can't, he began.
You can, she said. I will not make you, but you would be a good leader. Believe in yourself, just a little bit. You are not nothing. You were made the leader of a Garrison up in Heaven for a reason, weren't you? She grasped his face in her hands, not caring if the other angels witnessed. You are strong, Castiel. You are strong, and brave, and worthy. You are… righteous.
Am I?
You are, she confirmed. Even after all the changes you've gone through… you're still an angel of the Lord. And you're the best one—the best angel. You can… teach them. She struggled to find the right words. You told Sam that you had learned that angels can change. You can teach them to change.
He sighed, glancing at the others, who stood stock-still, waiting for his answer. Are you sure you're all right with this?
Yes, she said, resolutely. But like I said, I won't make you do this—not that I could. It has to be your decision.
Castiel took a deep breath, pressing his forehead to hers, and she was grateful, like always, that he was unafraid to show intimacy with her in front of others. He drew back from her after a moment. I cannot, he said. I will not. These angels… they must learn to stand on their own. They don't need Bartholomew, and they don't need me.
Brooke inhaled slowly, nodding. All right, she said. I think you'd do a lot of good, but… you do what you want.
Castiel turned to face the three angels who had left Bartholomew for him, and he began to speak.