Nine

(BROOKE'S POV)

"Cass!" Brooke said again, laying a hand on her husband's twitching arm.

And, somehow, that broke whatever spell he was under. He wrenched himself into a sitting position, hands on either side of himself as if for balance, and gasped for air like he'd been drowning. Big, full, loud gasps that tore through him. In the dark, she could see his chest heaving.

"The—the Shadow," he rasped, and his voice sounded as if he'd been gargling gravel.

"Shadow?" she repeated, looking around the room. And then she realized he meant Shadow with a capital S. The Shadow. She took a shaky breath, touching his arm again. "Cass, you were dreaming," she whispered.

"No," he said. "No, no, it was… it was here. It was… on me." The way he said the last two words… he sounded so disgusted. "My eyes were open, Brooke. I was awake."

She closed her eyes for a moment, nodding. "That sounds like sleep paralysis."

Castiel said nothing, still sucking air into his lungs as if he'd just run a marathon. He had started shaking. Brooke could the tremors in his body.

She reached for him, and was only a little surprised when she suddenly found herself holding his entire body up as he buried himself against her chest, sobbing. "Okay," she said, and began rocking a little as she sat there. "All right."

He was really crying hard—she could hear his constant gasps for breath, his sniffling as the snot began to run. He hadn't cried this hard in… she tried to remember. When Jack had died, maybe, and they'd moved out of the bunker? He pressed even harder into her chest, almost uncomfortably, but she said nothing, only lifting her arms to allow him better movement until he was settled. Then she held him again, stroking his hair and his back. She tried to think of things to say, little murmurings, things he would have said to her, but her mind was drawing a blank. So, she just kept rocking and petting him.

After a long, long time, his muffled voice sounded against her chest. "I thought it was coming to take me to the Empty… but it… tried to suffocate me, instead."

Brooke said nothing, afraid he would stop telling her if she spoke.

He moved his head so that his mouth was not muffled anymore. Continuing to sniffle, he went on. "The Sh-Shadow said… well, it was making fun of me. For thinking I was safe now. It had been waiting all this time for me to forget the deal I made to save Jack. And then it… it tried to kill me. When you woke me up, it was… it was…"

A full-body tremor overtook him, so Brooke held him tighter, pressing her cheek into his hair.

"It was covering my face. My mouth and my nose and eyes. I thought I was about to die. And the whole time… you wouldn't wake up. I—I thought I was going to die inches from you, and you… you wouldn't wake up." He broke down into sobs again, pressing his face into her chest once more, hiding from the world.

Brooke took a deep, shaky breath and simply continued to hold her husband. This was not the first of Castiel's nightmares—not by a long shot—but this one seemed to be the worst. They'd both suffered nightmares since Jack had changed the world. Brooke, of course, had been having nightmares from a very early age, a side-effect of Hunting. She was slightly better equipped to handle them, but not by much. Castiel, before he'd become human, had been preventing her from having nightmares for the past several years, staying with her through the night as she slept and guarding her mind from itself. She'd become complacent, used to pleasant dreams. Now that the nightmares were back, it was almost harder than it had been before.

Still, she'd grown up with them. Castiel had not. He found the act of falling asleep itself hard enough sometimes; nothing had prepared him to face the nightmares that billions of years' worth of PTSD could produce. Even as he'd begun to forget his very early memories as an angel, his subconscious remembered scraps of things he'd done under his superiors' commands. But, mostly, his nightmares were about those he loved, just as Brooke's were. He dreamt that she was being attacked by some monster or other. Her, or Dean, or Sam, or Claire Novak, or Jack. Mostly, his nightmares centered around him feeling useless as they were harmed in some way. Sometimes he was the one harming them, him limbs no longer his own, as if he were possessed.

He told her about them all. Every nightmare. Because he couldn't go back to sleep until he'd expelled them from his body. But he'd never cried this hard before, and she wondered what it had been about this nightmare that affected him so deeply. Yet, she was afraid to ask. It seemed almost cruel to point out how terrible he felt.

So, instead of asking, she held him and rocked him until the very beginnings of grey, dawn light appeared from behind the curtains. By this point, he'd cried himself out of tears, and as the sun slowly came up, she heard his breathing deepen, felt him go slack in her arms. She smiled tiredly, then lay her head back against the wall behind the bed and fell asleep holding him.

###

Brooke was very glad, when they woke up past noon, that they'd both gotten the day after Halloween off work. They shambled about their bedroom, showering, getting dressed, then wandered into the kitchen to get something to eat. Usually, the quiet of the morning (or afternoon, in this case) would be comforting, but this kind of quiet was just disconcerting. Brooke opened her mouth to ask Castiel how he was several times, but each time, she had no idea how to begin to talk to him. Every time she looked at him, he just looked so… tired, and disheveled, and defeated, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy and bloodshot from so much crying.

They ate their eggs and toast in silence, Brooke growing more and more uncomfortable. She bounced her leg up and down under the table, gripping her knee with one hand to try and ground herself. She watched Castiel as he ate his food, his head blowed over the plate.

Finally, after probably thirty minutes of complete silence, she let out a sound of anger and frustration and slammed a fist down onto the table, rattling the dishes and cutlery.

Castiel jumped and looked up, staring at her with wide eyes. "Brooke, are you all right?"

"No," she snapped, and then buried her face in her hands. "I hate not knowing what to say to you, not knowing what you're thinking. How am I supposed to comfort you if I don't know what's wrong?" For emphasis, and because she was feeling close to tears for some reason, she added, "Fuck!"

Castiel had risen from the table and gone over to her, resting a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said—

"No, Cass," she interrupted him. "It's not your fault. I just… It's been months and we still don't know… h-how to communicate like normal humans. I'm so… frustrated." Angry tears welled up in her eyes but she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyelids and rubbed them away.

"You're probably tired, as well, which doesn't help," Castiel added, squeezing her shoulder.

Brooke laughed a little between her hands. "Yeah…" She stood up, then, and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face against his chest. He smelled like… fresh laundry. Probably from the t-shirt he was wearing. "How are you feeling?" she asked him. "About last night, I mean."

"Mostly, I'm just tired," he said, resting his chin atop her head. "There's a… lingering feeling of… disquiet, but… Daylight usually helps me face the nightmares better."

Brooke smiled. "It always does." Still… It seemed like he was more upset than he was letting on. "What aren't you telling me?" she asked, softly.

He was silent for a long moment. "I'm just sorry that I can't… be what you need… anymore."

"What are you talking about?" she asked, pulling back from him and searching his face.

He cupped her face in one hand, sighing. "I'm not… strong like I used to be, as an angel. I-I don't mean physically strong. I mean… I seemed to have a… certain strength of will as an angel that I don't have anymore. It's like… turning human made me…" He shook his head, apparently unable to come up with the right word. "Something is missing inside me. I can feel the hole where it used to be—and it isn't just my mental connection to you. Something about me is gone."

Brooke couldn't help but laugh, just a little. "Yeah. It's your angel-ness. You're not an angel anymore, Cass. You're not a warrior of Heaven. You're not on some… mission from On High. You're human. You're small. And that's not a bad thing. It's just… different."

He scrunched up his face as if he were in pain. "Why is it so much harder than it was before? I was human before now, when Metatron stole my Grace. And it was never this hard."

Brooke pursed her lips, touching his face. "Neither of us thought that that would last forever. And there was still magic back then. There was always a hope you'd get your mojo back, as Dean would put it. You being human for those—what?—six months? That was a vacation. This isn't. This is our life now."

…

Brooke wandered around the house after they cleaned up the dishes, noticing all the things they'd had to do to accommodate them now that Castiel was only human and they were no longer tied together with angel magic. The journals written in Enochian detailing his life were lined up on the mantle in the living room. The white noise machine Brooke needed to sleep was in the bedroom, making up for the fact that she no longer had a constant chorus of angelic chanting and whispering in her head. The tapestry of names on the wall, listing those they had lost…

It was all about loss. Nothing in their house that had anything to do with their past brought them closer. It was all there to make up for what they were missing.

Brooke opened the door to the guest bedroom and gazed around at the empty space. Even this meant nothing—not yet. They had not discussed children since the night they'd temporarily moved in with Daphne and Peter. Brooke moved further into the room and stood looking out the window, then ran her finger along the windowsill, and stared at the dust coating it.

She was happy. Happy enough. And she still wasn't ready for kids. But something was missing. Was it Castiel's lack of angel-ness? She rubbed the dust off of her finger and left the guest bedroom, closing the door behind her. Probably his lack of angelic whatever was part of it. But there had to be more to it than that. They had to relearn how to communicate with each other, without telepathy, or she had a feeling their relationship would fall apart.

###

It started in the morning if they had time, if they hadn't gotten up late and had to rush to work. "How did you sleep?" they would ask one another—a usual question. But then they would ask, "How do you feel this morning?"

"Tired." "Refreshed." "Excited."

"I'm feeling a little sad this morning. I miss Jack."

"I miss Bobby."

"I'm sad about what happened to Hannah."

"This morning I'm anxious because the overhead are coming into work to see how we're doing. I don't like being studied while I'm working."

On it went, every morning.

And when they got home from work, they would try to discuss in more detail how they felt about their day, as opposed to focusing on what happened. It was the feelings they were having trouble with, still half-assuming that the other person already knew how they felt.

And then they would ask, "Is there anything I can do for you? Would you like anything from me?"

"A massage?" "A cup of tea?" "Alone time?"

Alone time was a foreign concept. Bound to one another for so long, whether by choice or not, they idea of purposefully leaving each other alone was… discomforting. Always, they each offered the option of alone time, and always, it always denied. But the offer was appreciated, nonetheless.

These little things, these small communications helped. Slowly, they began to feel less adrift, ships circling one another endlessly, but too far away to be able to hear one another. Now, they began to relearn how to talk to one another, and how to listen. It would never be as effortless as it had once been, but that was the price they paid for peace, for a chance at a life without blood and fear and death.

As a way to simulate praying to Castiel, Brooke began to leave notes for him everywhere, handwritten on scraps of paper or sticky notes. She hid them in books he was reading, in his journals, on the bathroom mirror, on the fridge. She left them in his coat pockets and his nightstand and the drawers of the wardrobe they shared.

Dear Castiel,

Today I thought of you while I was at work, wondering what task you were performing at your own work. Wondering if you were thinking of me at the same time, like a time loop.

Dear Castiel,

I thought naughty things last night while watching you wash the dishes. I have a thing for forearms—but only yours.

Dear Castiel,

I love you.

Often, she would catch him in the act of discovering a note she had left, and would watch him out of the corner of her eye. Always, he would duck his head and smile, sometimes blush, and always, he would tuck the note away somewhere to keep.

He kept them all. Every single one.

###

Castiel, it seemed, had also been thinking long and hard about better ways to communicate. What he came up with shocked Brooke, though not unpleasantly. She was simply surprised at his creativity. She wondered if that was unfair—assuming that her ex-angel, ex-soldier, ex-commander husband lacked creativity, for he'd shown great ingenuity in the past, when it was called for.

When she walked up to the front door after work, tired from standing all day, there was a sticky note at her eye-level stuck there: Brooke, I have gifts for you.

She blinked a few times, taking the note down from the door and staring at it. Then she smiled at unlocked the front door, walking in. "Honey, I'm ho-ooome!" she called out. "What are these gifts you got me?"

He appeared from the living room, and they greeted each other in the usual way: a lingering kiss, a long embrace.

Brooke was about to ask him how he felt about his day, but he pressed a finger lightly to her lips.

"Can it wait?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, squinting at him, wishing she could probe his mind to figure out exactly what he was hiding—what her gifts were.

"Good." He took her hand and led her into the living room, sitting down on the loveseat. On the coffee table were two packages, one much bigger than the other. He handed her the smaller one, small enough to hold in her hands, and said, "Open this one first."

She did. It took a while, as opening packaged things always does; she had to get through layers of plastic. It was a jewelry box. Smiling faintly, wondering what kind of jewelry he would've gotten her, considering the only piece she wore was her wedding ring, she opened it. It was a simple leather bracelet, something a surfer from California might wear, the pieces of leather interwoven together into a corded design. She would say it wasn't her style—except she didn't have a style. "Thank you," she murmured, and looked up at him.

"Don't put it on yet," he said, just as quietly. "Let me explain what it is."

"All right."

He took a breath, as if gathering his thoughts, and his face was deadly-serious, yet he also looked… He looked at her now the way he always had, as if she were the only person on Earth he ever wanted to see. His expression was so tender that she had to blink back tears, even though nothing had really been said yet.

"I've been thinking about our communication skills," he began. "Or… our lack of them. We've gotten better recently—I know—but… something still felt like it was missing, so I thought about it, and…" He glanced away, pursing his lips, trying to think of the right words. "Sometimes… Sometimes I know you have days where… the world is too hard. You're tired, you had a bad day, a bad week. You feel sad and… overly-frustrated, and you don't want to get out of bed. You don't want to get dressed or prepare food or… do anything."

He looked back at her, cupping her face in his hands. "It only happens sometimes, or I'd be more worried about it. But you and I… We've both been through so much. I think you deserve a day, every once in a while, where you don't have to do anything. But you haven't had a day like that in months—not since Jack changed the world. And I can see it wearing on you."

"I'm okay, Cass," Brooke began, trying to reassure him, not wanting him to worry.

"Hush," he said, so softly it was almost a whisper.

She fell silent.

"There were days, before, when you would ask me to… to do everything for you. It started…" He swallowed. "It started when I came back to life. After Lucifer…"

"I remember," she whispered, thinking back to those four or five days after she'd come back to the bunker from the hospital. After Castiel had returned to life and returned to her. She'd fallen apart after being sick for so long, both physically and emotionally. And he had cared for her like a father and a husband and a caretaker and a doctor. He fed her and he chose her clothing and he made sure she bathed. He read to her and he cooked her food and made sure she ate it. And that attention, so complete and so close, had revived her.

Castiel stared down at her hands for a moment, then dropped his own over hers, squeezing. "Before now, when you needed a day like that, you never would have had to ask. I would've simply… known. But I don't know anymore. Sometimes I can guess, but… you have to tell me. But you're…" He smiled. "You're you, and you would never admit such weakness out loud. I don't think it's weakness, of course, but you do, I think. So…" He cleared his throat, picking up the leather bracelet. "So, on days when you need me to… do everything, you put this on. Okay? You put on this bracelet and show it to me and then I know what I have to do. Those are the days when I cook your food and I pick your clothes and I draw you a bath and read to you while you soak in the tub. Those are the days when we do nothing all day. When we're quiet. Together. And…"

Brooke cut him off, wrapping both arms around his neck and kissing him. He cradled her head as they kissed, but she pulled away after only a moment or two. "I love this, Cass."

He smiled.

"But… there has to be a rule."

"What rule?" he asked, his smile falling.

"If I put this bracelet on and you can't… you're not in a place where you can be that for me, you have to say no. You have to speak up for yourself. Okay?"

He took a slow breath and released it. "Okay…"

"You have to promise." She held his chin, forcing him to look at her. "You have to promise you'll tell me if you can't do that right now."

He smiled again, more softly than before, amusement twinkling in his eyes. "I promise," he said.

"Good. So, what's the other present?"

Castiel's entire face changed, his smile disappearing, his blue eyes smoldering. "It's related to the bracelet in a way, but… different."

Brooke stared at him, trying to penetrate his mind, though she knew she couldn't. "Different how?" she asked, slowly.

He lowered his chin. "Open it."

Suddenly nervous, she grabbed the other package off of the coffee table and tore it open, ripping off the plastic. This was a box, too, but it didn't look like a jewelry box. It was black, made of some kind of hard plastic with a smooth cover. She lifted the top of it off, and inside, laying in a bed of what looked like velvet, was a collar.

A black leather collar, with a d-ring. Sitting beside it was a leash.

Brooke lifted only her eyes and stared at Castiel. She raised both eyebrows.

He did not flinch. His face had become hard as granite. He held her stare, looking down his nose at her. "This collar is what you will wear, if you wish, when you want the Commander," he said, calmly. "You do not have to wear this. If you don't like it, I will get you something else."

"I love it," she breathed.

One corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. A smirk. "I thought you might."

She swallowed. "You're a naughty angel, aren't you?"

He continued to smirk, staring at her with those electric blue eyes. "I'm not an angel anymore," he said. "But I am naughty."