Twelve

Castiel and Brooke had been traveling with Metatron for a little over twenty-four hours, and there was already a strange thing happening between the three of them. Metatron, of course, never stopped talking, even after Cass had threatened to hurt him several times. But it seemed that the more agitated Castiel grew with the Scribe, the more amused Brooke became. She wanted to hurt Metatron, too, of course, but somehow her patience towards him was deeper than Cass'. She had noticed long ago, though, that whatever emotional state Castiel was in, she seemed to be the opposite. When he was calm, she was angry, and when he was annoyed, she was amused. Perhaps this was how they kept each other in check.

Brooke was sitting in the backseat; they had cleaned and bandaged the gunshot wound themselves—taking him to a hospital was out of the question since hospitals were required to report gunshot wounds—and giving Metatron the passenger seat just made it easier for him to get in and out of the car. Of course, Castiel could have healed his wound, but he had chosen to let the Scribe suffer. The pain in Metatron's leg did not seem to stop his mouth, much, however.

The radio was on—Metatron had turned it on—and the words floated back to Brooke. "Our flashback playback continues with a song that climbed all the way to number four on the charts. Here's Alanis Morisette's Ironic."

Castiel turned off the radio.

Hey, man, that's a good song, Brooke said, mildly annoyed with the angel.

He said nothing.

"Really?" Metatron asked, turning to Cass. "That song is a classic."

See? I don't agree with Metatron on much, but at least he has good music taste.

Brooke, Castiel said, I love you. Please shut up.

Brooke laughed, and quieted.

"What, you don't think so?" Metatron asked her, turning in his seat. He thought her laughter had come from his statement about the song. He made a thinking face, nodded, and turned around again. "Yeah, I hear you. I do. And you're right. Inclement weather on the day of your nuptials and the wrong cutlery at inopportune times is hardly ironic."

Silence.

"But it sure is catchy," the Scribe said, leaning towards Castiel.

Silence.

"Yeah, fair point. Cant's argue taste. But, since I became human, it's just so… strange. All these feelings, you know? I mean, I can feel music. Like that last song, Sussudio, I don't even know what it's about and I love it." He continued without stopping for breath. "I always enjoyed lyrics, words, stories."

Castiel's annoyance was slowly building at his incessant chatter.

"Gives me goosebumps," Metatron said. "And goosebumps—don't even get me started on those. Creepy. And yet… arousing."

Brooke snorted with amusement.

Castiel had pulled out his phone and was dialing Sam.

"Can I just kill him now?" Castiel asked, when Sam picked up.

"You know I can hear you, right?" Metatron said, staring at him.

"Well, I'd like to kill him slowly," Castiel said into the phone.

"I am, like, two feet from you!" Metatron exclaimed.

"Anything on the Mark of Cain?" Castiel asked, loudly.

Brooke could have listened in on his conversation, but she was too busy being entertained by Metatron.

"Every word—crystal clear," the Scribe continued.

"There is an answer out there," Cass said. "We will find a cure for Dean."

Metatron scoffed. "I don't know why you'd wanna cure that little firecracker now. He's finally—

Castiel very calmly shifted the phone to his other hand, pressing it between his ear and his shoulder, and punched Metatron in the face.

Brooke whooped with laughter from the backseat.

"Well, just keep digging," Castiel said, as if nothing had happened. Then, "Sam?" He pulled the phone away from his ear, staring at it for a moment, and then put it down.

"Lose reception?" Metatron asked, his words slurring a little. "Or did he hang up on you."

Castiel turned to stare at Metatron for a moment, his expression all repressed rage and indignation.

Metatron giggled—really giggled, and said, "He hung up on you, didn't he?"

Castiel snapped and punched Metatron in the face a second time, harder than the first, grunting as he released pent-up frustration.

Ooo, yes, Brooke said, from the backseat. You're so sexy when you're angry.

Castiel eyed her in the rearview mirror, nostrils flaring.

She raised an eyebrow at him. What is that look? You wanna fuck out all your frustration?

He inhaled deeply through his nose, imagining every little thing he might do to her up against the hood of his car to vent the past twenty-four hours' worth of frustration. Don't tempt me.

###

Castiel stared at Metatron as he ate his stack of waffles, covered in whipped cream and topped with blueberries and strawberries.

Brooke had also taken the opportunity to eat, but she'd chosen an omelet over something so sugar-filled. She was raising a bite to her mouth when Metatron said,

"O… M… Me."

Brooke paused and glanced at Cass. I kinda wanna punch him for that.

Not in the restaurant.

She sighed and went back to eating her omelet.

"Food," Metatron said. "Glorious food."

Despite himself, Castiel could not help but recall being human, being able to eat food, which had been his most favorite human activity, other than having sex. His face had gone blank, so as not to let on to Metatron that he was envious of the Scribe.

Brooke pursed her lips and patted her husband's knee under the table.

"The taste," Metatron was saying. "The actual taste—

Castiel was remembering all the food that Brooke had made him try in the months that he had been human, and thinking about attempting to do the same thing now, when he knew that it would only be overwhelming and disgusting.

Feeling an overwhelming sense of protection for her husband's emotions, Brooke brandished her fork at Metatron. "If you don't shut the fuck up right now, I'm gonna stab you through the eye with this fork," she hissed.

Metatron stared at her, momentarily speechless, then he caught the depressed look on Castiel's face that he had let slip. "You miss all this, don't you?" he asked. "I mean, you were human once. You miss feeling all of this. Like the taste of these waffles."

Castiel's eyes dropped to the table.

"The sound of a child's laughter," the Scribe went on. "Look at us. We're a couple of angels who've touched not only the divine, but the mundane. You and I have a lot in common."

"Don't," Castiel growled.

"What?" Metatron whined. "I thought we were having a moment. Can't we be besties?"

Castiel leaned forward. "No. Because you killed my friend."

Metatron leaned back in his booth. "Oh, Dean is fine, mostly. Can't you get past that?"

Castiel was still leaning forward, and there was such anger in him, though he was doing a good job of controlling it in the moment. "Never," he said. "Now, we've hit three of your so-called safe houses, and all of them are empty."

Brooke sat back, staring at her husband's face as he was transformed by… sass.

"So," he continued, "either you've lost my Grace, or you're stalling."

Metatron looked down at his plate for a moment, and then he asked, "Can you blame me? The minute I hand over your Grace, I'm dead."

Castiel shook his head. "You have made your bed, Metatron, and nothing is going to get you out of it."

###

There was an angel outside the diner later who confronted them when they were leaving.

"Metatron and Castiel," he said, smiling at them. He did not even look at Brooke. "This really must be my lucky day. Two birds, one blade." He pulled an angel blade from his coat pocket.

Castiel quickly dropped his own blade into his hand, demanding, "Who are you?"

"Oh, just a cupid," the angel said. "An angry, angry cupid."

Castiel licked his lips. "I understand you're upset," he said, calmly, hoping that everyone could walk away without bloodshed.

"You both corrupted Heaven!" the cupid yelled. "It's never gonna be the same!" He lunged for Castiel, who caught his arm and punched him in the face.

Metatron backed quickly away, falling over from his bum leg. Brooke went to stand near him. She hated Metatron, but he needed to stay alive to show Castiel where his Grace was.

The cupid punched Castiel in the face so hard that he fell over.

Brooke cursed, stepping forward, torn between protecting Metatron and protecting her husband. Her answer came soon enough, when the cupid started to advance on the Scribe.

Brooke swiped at him with her blade, and he backpedaled.

By this point, Castiel had picked himself up and now he barreled into. the cupid, and they both fell to the ground. Castiel's angel blade was knocked out of his and clattered away. The cupid had him pinned. Brooke took two long steps forward and—

Metatron swiped the blade from her hand and plunged it into the cupid's back.

Brooke stared at him.

Castiel shoved the body off of him and also stared at him, glancing between him and Brooke. He rolled over, snatching his blade from the ground, and Brooke pulled him to his feet.

"I owed you that one, anyway," Metatron explained, flipping the blade around in his hand to give it, hilt-first, to Castiel.

Cass took it, growling, "This changes nothing."

Metatron stared incredulously at him. "You're welcome," he said.

Brooke ignored the Scribe, grabbing her husband's chin and forcing him to look at her. He was bleeding somewhere inside his mouth—she could see red between his teeth, pooling in his lower lip. Other than that, he looked okay. She fixed his tie, which had flopped up onto his shoulder during the melee and dusted him off, straightening the coat so that it rested properly on his frame.

He was still amped up from the fight, and angry at Metatron, but he calmed a little at time she took to fuss over him, and touched her face.

Metatron approached them slowly, limping. He was staring strangely at them.

Castiel turned his head quickly, like a wild animal snapping at someone's fingers. "What?"

Metatron stared between them for a few more seconds, then he said, "You really do love each other, don't you?"

Castiel rolled his eyes and walked off, but Brooke stayed where she was, and met the Scribe's eye. "Yes," she said, quietly.

Castiel stopped, turning halfway back for just a moment, and then kept walking.

###

"Oh, come on," Castiel said, as they made their way down the steps. "You expect me to believe that you hid my Grace in a library?"

"Why wouldn't you believe that?" Brooke asked. "He is a scribe."

"She's got a point," Metatron said. "Besides, nobody goes to libraries anymore. It's safest place in the world."

The moment Brooke's feet touched the floor of the library, she felt a humming in her veins, and she wanted to cry. "It's here," she whispered. It was faint, but she could feel the rest of Castiel's Grace resonating with the Grace inside her. It pulled at her body, but she could not sense from what direction. She was immediately agitated, almost beyond reasoning, like she was unbearably itchy in a place she couldn't scratch, or tantalizingly close to an orgasm that wouldn't come.

Castiel felt her agitation, and was quickly succumbing to his own. "Where is it?" he demanded, looking around.

"Honestly, I have no idea," Metatron said, sounding tired.

Castiel spun and shoved him down into a chair, holding him down with one hand and squeezing his wounded leg with the other. "Where is it?" he repeated, dangerously.

Metatron screamed. "I don't know, I swear! I had another angel hide it, even from me!"

Castiel glared at the Scribe, and his nostrils were flaring like a bull's. He squeezed the Scribe's leg harder.

Metatron screamed again, jumping in his chair. Through gritted teeth, Metatron spat, "You know, in case someone tries to torture the information out of me!" He looked down at Castiel's hand on his leg. "Case in point!"

Castiel stared into Metatron's face and slowly released his death-grip on the Scribe's leg, but held him down in the chair. Slowly, he asked, "Where… is… my… Grace?"

Brooke was slowly spinning in circles, her eyes closed, trying to pinpoint its location, but every time she seemed to get close to it, it slipped away from her, like smoke. Her body was shaking, singing, vibrating in tune with it, and tears were streaming down her cheeks without her even realizing that she was crying.

From far away, she could hear Metatron speaking. "I told the angel to hide some clues in some of my favorite books… Mother, may I?"

…

Brooke followed along behind Castiel, who was following Metatron. If the Scribe was limping, Brooke was certainly dragging her own feet. Only the compulsion to follow her husband wherever he went made her move from her spot, spinning, at all. She felt like she was going insane as the Grace inside her body pulled and twisted and screamed inside her, as if trying to leave her body to join the rest of itself. But even it didn't know which way to go, so it simply bounced around in her body like a trapped bird slamming into the windows of a house.

Castiel, she thought, as she shivered uncontrollably, stumbling. What is happening to me?

I—I'm not sure, he admitted. I wonder if the same thing would be happening to me if I had a little of my own Grace still in my body…

Metatron suddenly grabbed at a book on one of the shelves.

Castiel snatched it from his hands, opening it, and picked up the note inside. "What is the maddest thing a man can do?" He looked at Metatron. "It's a riddle? What the answer?"

"Beats me," Metatron said. "I've only been a man a day." He shook his head. "Um, the answer to the riddle will lead to another book, and inside that book, you'll find your Grace."

Castiel rolled his eyes.

Metatron put his hands up, placatingly. "We're gonna work this out together, okay? Teamwork." He was searching the shelves for another book.

…

"You know, we really do make a good team," Metatron said, a little while later. "That includes you, Brooke."

Brooke was doing everything she could not to start screaming and scratching at herself until she bled, and she barely heard him.

She seemed to space out completely for a moment, taken over by the call of Castiel's Grace. It sounded like bells were being rung in her head, or Tibetan singing bowls resonating. She swayed on her feet, and came back to herself with a gasp when Castiel caught her.

I'm sorry, she thought.

It's not your fault, he said, but he was speaking to Metatron, aloud, at the same time. "No more of our brothers and sisters should die," he told the Scribe.

"Brothers and sisters?" Metatron repeated, laughing. "Listen to you. Still spitting out the company line like anyone cares." He scoffed. "Like we're actually a family? When what we really are, are a bunch of glowing lights filled with self-loathing or delusions of grandeur. Or both."

"You shut up," Castiel snapped, as he slowly made his way down an aisle, holding Brooke up as he did. She could still walk, though every nerve inside her felt like it was on fire.

"No!" Metatron yelled, staring at him. "If I'm gonna die, I want answers. Like, who are you now? You're obviously not an angel of the Lord. And what about all of this 'walking the Earth like Kane from Kung Fu' crap? Cleaning up Heaven's messes. How many more rogue angels are there out there? And, what are you gonna do once you're done with all of that?" Metatron laughed. "Go back to Heaven? Please."

Castiel was sinking, slowly, into himself.

"The angel formerly known as Hannah has restored order up top," Metatron went on. "Smoothest it's run since God cut the ribbon on the pearly gates. So, tell me, Castiel, truly: what is your mission now?"

Castiel was low, very low, and sinking further still. It took all the energy he had just to respond to Metatron at all. "You shut up," he murmured, "and keep looking."

"Castiel," Brooke gasped, beside him.

He spun to her, suddenly, afraid of the way she had said his name. He held her arms, staring into her face. What is it? he asked, terrified for her. Is it still getting worse? The only way I can think to fix it is by finding my Grace. I'm sorry—

"Castiel," she repeated, panting.

"What is it?" he asked her again, his voice breaking.

"Metatron… He's wrong." She was speaking through her teeth now, as the Grace inside her screamed and set her blood on fire. "You always have a purpose. Always."

Castiel stared at her.

"You're still an angel of the Lord," she went on, barely able to force the words out, but wanting—needing—Metatron to hear them, too, so that the Scribe would know that as long as she was there, Castiel would never truly be defeated. "Are you hearing me?" she asked, speaking to them both. "You are not useless. Your life has meaning, all on its own." She stared into her husband's eyes, those beautiful blue eyes. "And if you run out of things to do, angels to save… let me be your mission, your purpose." She was gasping from pain, now, but forced herself to remain upright. "Do you understand me, Castiel? You are not meaningless. Not to me."

He stared at her for a long moment, Metatron forgotten, and held her face in his hands. "Oh, my love," he murmured, and it was the first time he had ever called her that. My love.

And then he grunted, coughed, and his knees buckled. He caught himself on a bookshelf, still coughing. Metatron had drawn angel warding somewhere, or probably something more sinister.

Brooke fell, completely, to her knees, unable to stand on her own, the Grace inside her seeming to tear her apart.

Metatron stood before them, suddenly. He tutted. "Poor Castiel. Poor little Angel Whore. Swam so far just to drown in shallow waters."

Brooke clutched at her husband, and he returned her violent, desperate clawing, as if they could pull each other into themselves.

Metatron leaned down. "Isn't it ironic?" He smiled. "Don't ya think?" And then he turned and left.

He was still speaking. He had not left the library. But Brooke could barely hear anything anymore.

But Brooke heard Castiel when he groaned, "They're quotes."

She helped him—they helped each other—as they crawled, flopped, clawed their way along the ground. Castiel was coughing horribly, sweat beading his forehead. He reached suddenly upwards, knocking a book to the ground. Don Quixote. The vial containing his Grace rolled out of the book.

Metatron said something that Brooke could not hear and skittered away.

Castiel groaned loudly in pain as he pushed himself up to his knees. "What's the maddest thing a man can do?" he asked. "Let himself die." He uncorked the vial containing his Grace and—

It swirled around and around, spinning, twisting, wending its way across the surface of Brooke's skin. No, no, she thought, desperately. Not me. Why is it—

"It wants to return to the rest of itself," Castiel ground out, coughing some more.

"No," she said, again. "Not me. Not me." She grasped Castiel's hand, willing his Grace to return to right body.

Eventually, it left her, and swirled around in the air above Castiel's head.

She felt him pull his Grace into himself, and something immediately clicked into place.

Brooke collapsed, the Grace in her own blood finally calming down as everything righted itself in the world.

And then the Grace inside Castiel—his Grace—rose to the surface, strong and hot.

Exhausted, but unable to stop it, the Grace inside Brooke, rose in tandem. She screamed—she could feel her throat vibrating—but could hear nothing but bells, violin strings, singing bowls. Her body lifted up off the floor of its own accord as books went flying off the shelves—the angel warding destroyed. Lights shattered, bookshelves groaned in distress, pages flew all over the place. And Brooke was lifted off the floor and thrown into her husband's body, Grace to Grace.