Thirteen

When Brooke came to her senes—she did not know how much later—she was laying cradled in Castiel's arms, like a child. She opened her eyes, feeling his warmth around her—and stared up at him in awe.

And she cried.

She reached up with trembling fingers and brushed his face, as if to reassure herself that he was real.

He smiled down at her, saying nothing.

She had forgotten.

She had forgotten how beautiful he was. How beautiful his true form was, how beautiful his light. Now that he was himself again—all traces of his stolen Grace burned away—she recalled with aching clarity the first time she had ever seen him. Now that he was himself as an angel, and not as a human, or as an angel living on borrowed time…

His light was dimmer than it had once been, now glowing with a less cold, clinical feeling. It was warmer in tone, and all she could think, a little stupidly, that this must mean Castiel was no longer quite the young man he had once been. He had made it to middle age, officially. This was, of course, false. He glowed more dimly, with less light, because he contained less of his own Grace. But she did not care.

Castiel heard her thoughts about the fact that she now considered him middle-aged, and he chuckled.

She closed her eyes at the sound of his laughter—his true laughter, through his true voice—and her face twisted as she cried harder.

He was so achingly, wondrously beautiful—and she had forgotten, had grown complacent. At the time, accepting his stolen Grace had been the only acceptable option, so that's what they had done. But now, faced, once more, with his real form, his own Grace, Brooke could only sob with remembering who he had been forced to become in the past year, with the Grace of first one angel, and then another, tearing him apart from the inside.

Castiel pulled her into a sitting position and held her close to him, her face pressed to his chest as he rocked her. And even with her eyes closed, she could see him, as she had always been able to. She could always see him. She could see him as long as he was near enough, no matter where in the room he was. She could see him when he was behind her, even. And now, she did not have to struggle to recall what he once looked like. She allowed herself to be rocked, kept her eyes closed, and felt his light around her. It was like sinking into a warm bath on a cold night, like falling into bed after an exhausting day.

Castiel felt, to her, like comfort. Like home.

And, for the first time in a long time, the Grace inside her hummed in tune with the Grace inside him. And she realized how tired she had been for such a long time, how irritable, with their Graces out of sync. Now, she felt normal again, as if a constant, year-long headache had suddenly vanished. She felt at once refreshed and exhausted, and all she wanted to do was sit here. Forever. Just like this.

Her mind drifted for a while, and Castiel—bless him—let her sit there in his arms. And he never stopped rocking, one hand pulling gently at strands of her hair. In that moment, he was her husband, yes, but not just that. He was her father, her brother, her mother and sister. He became what she needed, whatever that happened to be. And as her mind continued to drift, as she allowed herself to touch him, lightly, with the Grace inside her, and he returned her soft touches, she realized something:

He was not going to die.

He had regained his own Grace back, and he would not burn out, now, or fade away.

He was going to live.

Fresh tears were brought to her eyes, and she wept with joy. She lifted her head, finally, and looked up into his face, and saw that he, too, was crying.

He cupped her face in his hands. "Metatron was wrong," he said, his voice piercing her as she heard his true voice. That had been twisted by the stolen Grace, as well, so that it had come out distorted and grating. Now, the sound of it made her want to sing.

"Metatron was wrong," he repeated. "Back at the diner. He tried to tell me that, as an angel, I could not truly feel." He shook his head. "I may not be able to enjoy food, but I can feel this. You. Us." And he kissed her.

The feel of his mouth on hers felt different now than it had in so long. Before he had stolen Grace, he'd been human. Kissing him had felt like kissing any human. After he had stolen angel Grace, kissing him had become a strange affair. Touching him always made the Grace in both of them hum, but they hummed different tones, at different frequencies. She had grown used to such discordance, but it had altered everything about the way they touched each other.

Now, as he kissed her, she felt part of his light enter her, as it used to. The Grace in both of them hummed pleasantly together, and Brooke could feel that buzzing just below the surface of her skin that felt almost static-y. And the more he kissed her, the more she wanted him to kiss her. With her eyes closed, sitting in his lap, their limbs tangled together, they felt almost like one person, and she thought, maybe, if they continued kissing, they would simply… meld together into one being.

Those light brushes of Grace against each other became tugs, instead. Pulls. Shoves. Castiel tangled one hand into Brooke's hair, gripping at the roots, and she felt shocks of Grace travel across her scalp. His tongue flicked into her mouth, and somehow, even that didn't feel close enough.

She pulled back from his kiss and pressed her mouth to his throat, right at the place where his Grace pulsated the most beneath his skin, the place where you could rip an angel's Grace from his body with the right blade and a vial to hold it. She felt his Grace vibrate almost violently against her lips as she kissed him there, as if it would tear out of his skin and wrap itself around her. He groaned as she touched him in that vulnerable spot, and it sounded like Heaven.

He pulled his head down so that their foreheads touched, and took a steadying breath. You are mine, he said. And I am yours. This is all I know, and it is all that matters.

And Brooke remembered the first time he had said that to her, after they had forgotten who they were, their own names, after Castiel had crawled up out of that reservoir all those years ago and she had run to him and forgotten herself. After walking for hours, they had rested on the steps of a church, and after their first kiss—the first that they remembered—he had said those words to her. You are mine. And I am yours. This is all I know, and it is all that matters.

A long time passed as they sat together on the floor, surrounded by debris. But, after that unknown amount of time passed, Castiel slowly untangled himself from Brooke's limbs and began to stand. He offered his hand to her, looking down at her, but she did not take it. She had become enamored with him, as she had the first time she had seen him those many years ago. She stared up at him, smiling, crying, and slowly pressed her face into one of his legs, wrapping her arms around them both.

No, he said, and reached down to grasp one of her arms and pull her gently to her feet. No more of this.

She stared at him, silently.

He cupped her face in his hands. You and I… we are equals. No more worshiping.

She shook her head. But I must.

No—

I must! Until you can look at yourself in the mirror and not hate who you see… I must.

He stared at her for a long time, and then nodded, slowly. Let's go, then. If there is to be worship, it will be equal among us both. He took her hand and turned to lead her out of the library.

She did not move, for she had just noticed his wings—torn, frayed, and difficult to look at for long, for the image of them seemed to glitch in and out of existence, constantly. She reached out, as if to touch them, although she knew that she could not. Angel wings were not physical things. They existed in all planes of existence at once, giving the angel the ability to teleport not only to different areas on Earth, but also to different realms. But now, Castiel, who was as close to whole as he was ever going to get, had wings the same as all the other angels—broken. She stared at them sadly.

Castiel did not turn back to face her, but lowered his head in sorrow and shame, as if his broken wings were his own fault.

Metatron caused the fall, she reminded him, gently. Not you.

He nodded, noncommittally.

Look at me, she said.

He turned, slowly, to look at her, his eyes taking their time to match her gaze.

Tell me something you like about yourself, she ordered. A game they played often, mainly at night, to help boost his self-confidence.

He took a deep, slow breath, then his lips twitched into a smirk. "My stubbornness."

"Stick-to-it-iveness," she amended, calling it something with less of a negative connotation.

"Determination," he said.

"Drive."

"Oh, yes," he murmured, his blue eyes flicking to her face. "You do like my drive, don't you?" Sex drive.

"Hey, you said it. Not me." She grinned at him.

He held her gaze for a moment, still smirking, and then turned and led her out of the library with a little more pep in his step.

###

Castiel had called Sam just to let him know that he and Brooke were safe, that he'd gotten his Grace back, and then he'd hung up before the younger Winchester could ask him anything about anything. He had rented a motel room for the rest of that day and night, and he and Brooke spent a long time in it, exploring one another. Remembering what Castiel was, who he was, allowing the Grace in both of them to become reacquainted, as it were. Not all of that exploration was sexual, but a lot it was.

They had been reconnected mentally for a long time, now, ever since Castiel had stolen Theo's Grace months ago. But they had avoided touching each other with their Grace because it felt strange and wrong to do so. Now that their Graces matched again, they spent a long time on the bed, not physically touching, but activating the Grace inside one another to run it along each other's bodies. There had been a large part of their connection missing for so long, and Brooke wondered if that hadn't contributed to their little spats and disagreements over the months. Obviously, the one big fight they'd had, when Brooke had attacked him, had been more about her worrying that her husband was going to die. But that had been the climax of it all—it had started long before that.

But now, finally, the two of them felt normal to each other again. Castiel would raise the Grace in his body, and the Grace inside Brooke would rise in response, singing in tune, humming the same frequency, at the same speed. And, as they eventually came together, physically, bodies entwined under the blankets, Brooke saw themselves as one entity sharing two bodies. Twin flames. Soulmates—despite Castiel's lack of one. And, not the for the first time, she wondered at their strangely deep connection, and her ability, as a human, to use and affect her husband's Grace at all.

After they had expended themselves and lay calmly together in the bed, Brooke mused aloud, "Maybe I'm an angel, and someone stole my Grace and sent me to Earth so long ago that I just can't remember it. Or they erased my memory entirely—made me think I was born a human."

"No," said Castiel. "If you were an angel with missing Grace, you'd be able to hear Angel Radio, with or without your mental connection to me. There'd be other signs, as well. Having my Grace inside you, even a little bit, would have eventually made you sick, or you would have burned it away long ago."

Brooke stared at the ceiling, knowing he was right. "Then what is it?" she wondered. "There's something. I haven't thought about it, really, in a long time. But there's… something."

"I thought we already knew," Castiel said, looking at her. "There was a prophecy about us, remember? About the Apocalypse."

"Yes, yes," Brooke said, impatiently. "That I was meant to Witness. Except, I decided a long time ago that it was never about the Apocalypse. It was you. It was about you. Us."

"And now you think it goes beyond that?"

She sighed, shaking her head. "I don't know. Maybe. It doesn't matter, I just… I wonder."

"I don't," he said, leaning on one elbow and looking down at her. "I don't care about the reason for any of it. I just care that we're both here. Together."

She matched his gaze, her mind continuing to wander for a moment, then she pushed the issue aside and brought his face down to kiss him.

###

The only thing that Castiel regretted about allowing Metatron to lead him to his Grace was that the Scribe escaped with the demon tablet. Brooke did not recall that—she'd been too out of it when Metatron had escaped—but now she and Cass were both worried about what he might do with it.

They had returned to the bunker and were sitting in the main room, talking to Sam about what had gone on with the Scribe, the riddles in the library… Sam and the others, in the meantime, had found the Book of the Damned, and had hoped that it might contain the cure to Dean's Mark. However, the Book had brought more trouble than it was worth, so they had destroyed it, although it hurt Sam and Dean to do it. As the Book had gone up in flames, so, too, had their chance to remove the Mark of Cain from Dean's arm.

"We will find another way, Sam," Castiel assured the Winchester.

Sam looked away, not looking very reassured, but before anything else could be said on the matter, the door to the bunker opened above their heads.

"We're back, bitches," Charlie Bradbury's voice called from above.

Brooke stood up, smiling. "Charlie," she said, as the redhead came down the stairs carrying snacks and drinks.

Charlie grinned at her, then saw Castiel standing beside her. "Whoa," she breathed. "Is that who I think it is?"

Brooke smirked, nudging her husband with her shoulder. He grinned at Charlie a little shyly. "Charlie, Cass," Brooke said, introducing them. "Cass, Charlie."

Charlie came forward and hugged him. Castiel awkwardly accepted it, though his arms were pinned to his sides, so he could not return the gesture. She pulled back and stared at him. "I didn't know what to expect," she said. "Going off of Sam and Dean, I thought you'd be shorter, but going off of Brooke, I thought you'd be, like, eight feet tall."

Brooke cracked up, falling against her husband's shoulder for a second.

Charlie set the bags down, Sam carting them off to the kitchen, and went back to studying Castiel. "Heard you got your mojo back," she said.

"Yes," he replied. "My—my Grace, it's—it's been restored." He nodded, smiling.

"So, can't you just, you know… cure Dean?"

Castiel and Brooke glanced uncomfortably at each other, and the angel sighed. "Unfortunately, it's not that simple."

"Oh," said Charlie. She smiled, mirthlessly. "Never is, is it?"

Cass pursed his lips, his gaze falling to the floor as he thought about Dean and his struggle with the Mark. The fact that everything was only getting worse.

Brooke took his hand, then, and he squeezed it, thankfully.

Charlie suddenly spoke up again. "Do you think you could do anything about my carpal tunnel?" She chuckled.

Oh my God, Brooke complained, silently. You get your Grace back and you become everyone's personal healer all over again. Cass, do this. Cass, do that. Christ.

I don't mind, he replied, silently.

No, she said. You seem to enjoy being stepped on.

He glanced at her with a hard look, and then pressed two fingers to Charlie's forehead. Brooke felt him probing the woman with his Grace, brushing it along her wrist, but mainly focusing on the bullet wound in her side.

Charlie looked awkwardly between him and Brooke for a moment. She seemed to have picked up on whatever tiny argument they had just had, but she only asked, "Is that it?"

He smiled shyly again. "Your carpal tunnel and your bullet wound are now healed. You may want to continue wearing your wrist brace at night, though."

Charlie stared at the angel in amazement and then smiled and punched him playfully on the shoulder. "Did we just become best friends?"

Castiel was too confused about her punching him to even begin to respond.

It's a friendly gesture, Brooke explained.

Punching someone can be friendly? Castiel asked, bewildered.

She stared at him. How long have you been on Earth, dude? Don't you know this shit by now?

Clearly, I don't know all of it, he replied.

"Hey, look who decided to show," said a voice from above them. Dean Winchester was carrying two large pizzas down the stairs, as well as what looked like a bag of even more snacks.

Castiel's heart fluttered.

Fluttering like angel wings, Brooke murmured.

Cass would have blushed, had he had been able, but angels could not blush so easily.

"So? You're back?" Dean asked him.

He spread his arms, smiling.

"A hundred percent?"

He inclined his head, almost bowing, still smiling.

"How did that happen?" Dean asked, setting the pizza boxes down.

Castiel opened his mouth, glancing awkwardly at Brooke, then at Sam, who raised his eyebrows, silently. "Um," said the angel, turning to look at Dean, "it was Hannah. She managed to get the location of the remainder of my Grace out of Metatron." He said all this very quickly.

You're a fuckin' terrible liar, Brooke said.

And yet, Dean took it, immediately, shrugging. "Awesome," he said. He glanced behind Cass to Sam. "I told you we were due for a win." He leaned forward and slapped Castiel on the shoulder. "Good to have you back, pal. I bet Brooke's happy about it, too." He grinned at her.

Castiel rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, forcing his breath to come evenly and praising his Father that Dean had taken the lie.

…

The next few hours were simply a joy. They all sat around, eating pizza and drinking beers, laughing and talking, like their lives were normal. Charlie was feeling grateful to Cass for healing her, and she made a paper fortune teller out of a napkin (which Brooke thought was incredible because napkins weren't very cooperative with origami) and played with him. She watched in amusement as her husband, who had shed his coat, picked a number between one and four.

"Um, four?" he said, hesitantly, as though there were a possible wrong answer.

Charlie opened and closed the fortune teller, saying aloud, "One, two, three, four." She smiled up at the angel. "Okay, now pick A, B, C, or D."

"Uhhh," said Castiel, glancing between her and Brooke. He smiled, then, and turned to Charlie. "B. For Brooke."

Brooke smiled, glancing at the table, and rested her head on his shoulder for a moment. "You're sweet."

Charlie giggled, and opened the flap. "Okay, time to read your fortune."

Castiel, who seemed to be way more into this than Brooke would have ever given him credit for, leaned over to read what was written on the napkin: The greatest risk is not taking one.

Castiel smiled, murmuring the words aloud. "There's some truth to that," he said.

"What's the greatest risk you ever took that paid off?" Charlie asked him.

He looked away, thinking, and then his face lit up and he turned to Brooke. "Her," he told Charlie.

Brooke snorted, touching his face as a memory came over her: the night he had first kissed her, after teleporting into her room to save her from a nightmare.

How wrong would it be? she had asked him, about his having feelings for her.

Very, he had said, and kissed her, anyways.

And here they were, a decade later, married. Or as married as a human could ever be to an angel. Through all the crazy shit that had happened to them over the years, the one constant had been each other. Even Sam and Dean had not been as steadily there for them as they had been for one another. For better or for worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. Despite never having taken those vows, they had upheld them through it all.