A/N: Strap in, kids. It's time for Brooke to have a… a meltdown. Or something. But like, an angry one. I was getting really bored with this fanfic so I decided it needed some DRAMA.

Thirteen

Castiel had been silently watching Brooke for the past few days, every chance he got. He wasn't quite sure why, but she'd been acting strangely, giving him terse responses to questions, hardly talking at all otherwise, muttering to herself as she did chores. And all the while, he could see the muscles in her body getting tenser and tenser, her shoulders hunching, the veins in her neck occasionally popping…

To say that Castiel was concerned was the understatement of the year. But every time he asked her what was wrong, she always snapped, "Nothing!" and refused to say anymore.

The first time she snapped at him, it was an evening, and she'd just gotten home from work. She hugged him in greeting, but her body seemed stiff in his arms, her smile tight and perfunctory.

"Are you all right?" he asked. "Bad day?"

"I'm fine," she replied, and walked away from him.

The second time happened the next morning, when he had an early shift and had to leave the house before her, and she snapped at him for waking her up as he got ready for work. She'd never done that before. Normally, she groaned good-naturedly and then begged him back to bed. "Can't you stay home? With me? In bed? All day? I'll do naughty things if you'll just turn the light back off." And she'd kiss him and send him on his way. Not this time. This time she said, "Can't you get dressed in the dark?" and rolled over so her back was to the light. And when he came over to her to say goodbye, she rolled the other way, so that now her back was facing him.

That time, it had hurt.

Tentatively, he asked, "A-Are you all right?"

"I'm fine!" she said, loudly, her voice muffled in the pillow. "Go to work!"

Finally, after three days of this hell, his mind spinning, his heart hurting for her, as well as himself, he stopped her in the kitchen one afternoon as she stirred a pot of soup on the stove. He took her hand, the one holding the big wooden spoon, and murmured, "Brooke."

"Cass, leave me alone!"

Those words tore at him like claws. He could count on one hand the amount of times she had ever told him to leave her alone. Always, when she was having a problem, she came to him. He tried to ignore the constricting feeling in his chest. "No," he said, firmly. "I've left you alone for two and a half days, and you haven't gotten any better. In fact, you've gotten worse. You will tell me what's wrong."

"Oh-hoh," she said, laughing mirthlessly. "You gonna command me?"

"If I have to," he growled, standing his ground. He turned the stove off and moved the pot of soup off of the burner. Then he stood, his hands at his sides, hands balled into fists, and stared down at her.

"Remember when we used to fight monsters for a living?" she said, quite suddenly.

He was a little caught off guard, but at least she was talking. "Y-Yes…?"

"I miss that."

He blinked. "You miss being in mortal danger almost every day?"

She huffed a sigh. "Yes."

He blinked some more, gazing at nothing over her shoulder. "Why?" he asked. He was not being judgmental—he would never be, not with her. He really did want to know why.

"I dunno," she said. "I just do."

He growled in frustration. "That's not an answer, Brooke. I can't read your mind anymore. You have to tell me why or I can't help you."

She made her own noise of frustration, running her fingers through her hair so that it stuck up in the front. "We've been living in this house for six months. Doing… nothing! I'm… I'm bored, I'm restless. I need to kill something."

He took a deep breath, his body losing some of its tension even as hers seemed to grow more tense. She sounded so much like Dean just then, but he did not tell her that. "It sounds like you have a lot of excess energy that you need to burn off," he said, touching her arm. He thought a moment, casting out for ideas, and landed on the most obvious one first. "Maybe I could help with that." He made sure to make his voice suggestive, and squeezed her arm.

She shook his hand off. "No! Sex can't be the answer to everything!" She moved away from him.

He stared at her, uncomprehending. I think that is the first time in fifteen years that she has ever said no to sex, he thought to himself, and was immediately at a loss. He tried to shake off the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach and quickly sought other solutions. "Perhaps an exercise regiment might help," he mused. Neither of them had exercised much since Jack had changed the world…

"Are you calling me fat?" she demanded, glaring at him.

"What? No!" He stared at her, and felt a chasm opening up between them. He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose. "This is difficult without telepathy."

"Try!" she snapped.

His eyes immediately opened again. "You're not trying very hard, yourself!"

"Fuck you!"

He shifted, pulled back, stared at her. It felt as if someone had dumped ice water over his head. He opened his mouth. Closed it. And then a little niggle in the back of his head bloomed into a full idea. "You just want to fight, don't you?" he said. It wasn't really a question.

The flush to her face was answer enough.

"This is how you're releasing your excess energy. You're picking a fight with me."

She looked away from him.

"How very Dean of you," he said, coldly, and felt his spine stiffen.

Her eyes snapped back to his face, her mouth opening, face contorted into something ugly. And then she closed her mouth without a word and turned away from him.

"Say it," he snarled.

"No."

"Say it," he repeated, louder.

She spun to face him again. "If I am acting like Dean, then shouldn't you be on your back by now, staring up at me with those big eyes and begging me for more abuse?"

Something inside of him broke. She was right, and that made it worse. And that was why she'd said it—because she knew she was right, and that having to face his own weakness like that was so painful. He stared at her, rooted to the spot, and for the first time in… possibly ever, he felt angry with her. Not frustrated, not annoyed. Angry.

And then her face crumpled into an ugly sob.

The anger inside him remained. He could feel how stiff his body had become. He stared down at her as she began to cry and felt… righteous.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry, Cass. That was… that was too far. That was gross. I didn't…"

"You didn't mean it?" he asked, and heard his own voice come out so calmly, devoid of emotion.

"No."

"I think you did."

She stared up at him, her eyes wide, tears rolling down her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she repeated, and she looked… suddenly unsure of herself, unsure of him.

"Fifteen years you've been telling me not to let Dean use me as a punching bag," he said, and his voice was still so calm. "And then you get bored and miss your old life, and want something to distract you from the apparent misery of a life that others would kill for, and I become your punching bag."

She looked at him as if he'd slapped her.

He glanced away from her. "You asked me the other night if I disliked how immature you were. I said I didn't. In this one instance, however, I was wrong. This is an amazing level of immaturity from you. And I don't like it."

He stood there at the stove, staring at the ground. Brooke continued to cry. He saw her approach him, saw her shoes step closer to him, and backed away, his hands up: Don't touch me.

He had never turned her away like that, ever.

He heard another strangled sob claw its way out of her throat, and then she spun around and ran from the kitchen.

###

Castiel put away the food without eating any—he wasn't hungry—and then stood in the living room, unsure of what to do with himself. He was still angry, but quickly cooling off. He thought about taking a walk to help clear his head, but did not want Brooke to hear him open and close the door and have her assume that he was leaving in some more permanent fashion. He smiled mirthlessly at himself just then: even now, he was thinking of her and hers needs, her fears. Maybe he should change that—think about himself more often.

He opted for sitting in the living room and reading a book, though he could not focus on the story. Brooke was in the bedroom, and he'd let her have that space all day if she wanted it, but that left him stranded in the rest of the house. The laptop was in there with her, and they did not have a TV. He sighed and tried to refocus his attention on the book, running his fingers along the words as he read them.

She came out an hour later, her hair a mess, face and eyes red from crying. Actually, she was still crying, partly. More like sniffling. And she clutched something in her hand. He stood slowly from the couch, taking her in, wishing desperately to hear her thoughts in his head. Then he saw what she held—the bracelet, the one she had dubbed the "comfort bracelet." Immediately, he went cold again, anger rising once again. He began to shake his head and opened his mouth to say, "I don't think so." But he never got that far.

"It's not for me," she said, her voice thick from crying. And she snatched up his hand and quickly put the bracelet on his wrist.

He blinked.

"There," she said. "Now I have to do whatever you say."

He took a breath, compressing his lips. "I take it this is how you plan to apologize," he murmured.

"I-If… If you'll let me."

He looked up at her, lifting his eyes from the bracelet, and saw that she was shaking. Like a leaf. "Brooke," he began, worry lancing through him.

"So, what do you want me to do?" she asked, interrupting him.

"Are you all right?"

"Y-Yes. I just… I just need you to tell me w-what to do. A-Are you hungry? I… I n-never finished cooking lunch."

He was alarmed now, seeing her hands clasped so tightly together, her knuckles white. And she wouldn't look at him, her eyes downcast and darting, as if she were afraid of him. "Brooke, I want you to take a deep breath," he said, quickly.

"I don't need to breathe," she whispered. "I need to fix this." Her face scrunched up, her eyes watering, and then she shook her head—hard—and blinked the tears away. "So… So tell me what to do."

Any leftover anger he might have felt evaporated, and it seemed as if his body deflated. "Brooke," he said, and his heard his voice crack. "I forgive you—

"No!" she yelled, stepping back. "You can't forgive me yet! I haven't fixed it!"

"Brooke—

"Give me something!" she yelled, begging him, staring up at him with wide eyes, tears streaming down her face.

He opened his mouth, feeling the sting of tears in his own eyes now, and cast about for something to give her. "Uh…" He sniffled and pinched the bridge of his nose. How could they have gotten to this point? There was so much he wanted to say to her, but he knew she would not listen until she had worked with her hands and tired herself out. But they tended to stay on top of their chores. What could he give her?

"The… the fireplace needs be cleaned out," he finally said, and he heard her shuffle away before he'd even finished speaking. He sat down on the couch and watched as she worked, and felt a twinge of guilt; normally he cleaned out the grate, so as to save her from dirty work. He knew she didn't mind dirty work, but he saved her from it, anyways, as often as he could. Now, he sat and watched her do it, and tried to form a thin line with his mouth and tell himself that maybe she deserved to do this.

But such pettiness seemed beyond him.

She got up off her knees and turned around, and started, not realizing that he'd been watching her the whole time. Quickly, her down, she went to dump the old ashes and charcoaled wood bits. He said nothing, only listened as she dumped the ash and watched her return with a little hand broom to sweep up any excess ash on the tiles. She cleaned that up, left, and returned with glass cleaner and paper towels, to clean the glass doors.

She was shifting more and more as the process went on, trying to find comfortable positions for her knees as she knelt there. He grimaced. There were no comfortable positions for any job that required kneeling on hard surfaces. But he said nothing, and offered no help.

She finished cleaning the glass doors, and shuffled into the kitchen to throw away the paper towels. He heard the kitchen sink come on—she was washing her hands. Finally, she returned to him, staring at the floor, her hands once again clasped in front of her. He noted the little bits of white ash that covered her shirt.

Quickly, she moved out of his field of view and said, "H-How did I do?"

He studied the fireplace from his position, trying hard to maintain his flat expression. "You did well."

"Did you want me to clean the grate, as well?"

That would mean removing the grate and scrubbing it with a cleaning solution. He sighed. "No."

"Then give me something else to do."

"Stop it," he murmured. "Sit down here with me."

"No," she began, and he knew she was about to say something about needing to fix this again.

"Brooke." He said her name sharply, back straight, eyes narrowed as he turned his head to look at her. Now he was the Commander, and she would do as he said.

She jumped.

"I have the bracelet on, do I not?"

"Y-You do."

"So. I told you to sit down on the couch. You will do as you're told."

Her eyes widened and she swallowed, and then she sat down on the very edge of the couch cushion, as if she were a small bird who might flutter away at the smallest movement from him.

He took a breath. "You do not have to be afraid of me."

"I'm not afraid of you."

He looked at her, and though she still seemed as though she might jump up off the couch in a second, she gazed back at him with serious eyes. He believed her words. She was not afraid of him. "Good. Listen to me." He took another deep, slow breath, trying to figure out exactly what he would say to her. "Are you listening, or thinking about what else you should do to make up for what you've done?"

She hesitated. "I'm listening."

He narrowed his eyes at her.

"I am," she said, lifting her chin.

He nodded, and said without preamble, "I've done the self-hating thing, Brooke. I wouldn't recommend it."

She stared at him for a long moment, then her eyes began to water and she turned her head away.

He sighed. "We've fought before. Why is this is so different?"

He hadn't expected her to answer, but she did, her voice quiet and plaintive. "We always knew why we were fighting before. And exactly what we were going to say to each other, exactly how hurtful. Now we don't know any of these things. Now when we say mean things, they actually hurt, and… we have no idea what to do to make up for it, because we can't read each other's minds."

He looked at her, but her head was still turned away from him. "Don't shut me out, Brooke. If something is wrong—if you're feeling strange, if you want something different, if you're frustrated and you have too much energy—tell me."

Her face scrunched up again and she blinked furiously.

"You can cry—

"No. I'm done crying. I'm… This isn't about me."

"It is. It's about both of us. It's about coming to terms with our new life and learning how to communicate again. And… maybe making some new decisions about what our goals should be."

"Goals?" she asked.

"Well… we can't… save people or Hunt things anymore," he said, slowly. "Maybe… you could take night classes at a local college, to try and work for the police, or learn to be a firefighter? Something more physical that might help you feel less useless." He hesitated. "I was serious when I suggested an exercise regimen. I wasn't making a comment about your weight."

Her face fell again and she murmured, "I know," in a sad voice. "I was just… picking a fight, like you said."

"It's done," he said, firmly. "The fight is over." And he scooted closer to her on the couch, reaching for her. She did not pull away from him, but cringed when he touched her, which was somehow worse. "Brooke…"

"I just don't feel like I deserve to be forgiven," she whispered.

He saw himself so clearly within her, just then, that it nearly broke his heart. "Oh, my love," he murmured. "Hush, now." And he held her, his arms wrapped around her, for a long, long time, until her body relaxed and she stopped trembling. And as he held her, he murmured into her hairs, speaking Enochian—little phrases meant to comfort, words about God, about peace and silence. He knew it wasn't quite the same, that the language sounded harsh coming from his human throat, but it was something he'd been doing to comfort her for years. And it worked.

It worked for several hours. They sat and talked, and he felt relief bloom warm in his chest when he made her laugh. Everything felt normal again. They got up and got the food from the fridge and finally ate. They watched some mindless Netflix on the laptop, curled up in bed. By this time, it was nearly bedtime. They ate a small meal because they'd had lunch so late and went to bed.

And Castiel was feeling good about things. Brooke seemed settled and calm, and the red blotchiness in her face had gone away several hours ago. She didn't flinch at his touch, and smiled easily. And he knew that he loved her, and he forgave her for everything.

And then he woke up in the middle of the night with the distinct feeling that something was wrong. He lay still, his eyes open, adjusting to the darkness. From behind him, he could hear Brooke crying—very quietly, stifling the sound with her hand or a pillow—but crying nevertheless.

He turned in the bed to face her and reached out a hand to touch her shoulder. She gasped, or maybe sobbed.

"Cass," she said. "I'm s-sorry. I thought I was being q-quiet."

"You were," he replied, his voice cracking with sleepiness, and he scooched closer to her in the bed and wrapped an arm around her middle. "What's wrong?"

She didn't answer, only pressed herself against him and continued to cry.

"Still feeling guilty?" he guessed.

She made some kind of half-sniffle, half-wail that he assumed meant Yes.

"Brooke, I've never seen you like this—not after a fight with me, certainly. You're acting as if someone died."

"I'm s-sorry."

"No, I meant…" He took a breath, and lifted his hand to brush her hair, pulling it back away from her face so that she wouldn't get snot or spit on it. "You can cry all you want to—you know that. I just… I'm worried about you. You're so strong and fierce, and we've fought before, and even when it was really bad, you never reacted so strongly to it." He hesitated. "N-Not that I can recall, though my memory is fallible now."

It took her a long time to find her voice. Finally, she said, quaveringly, "If you'd gotten angry, yelled back at me when I… when I said… that thing about Dean… It would've been normal and… I probably wouldn't be crying right now. But you didn't get angry—at least not on the surface. You didn't yell. You didn't storm off. You didn't even cry or—or feel sad like you do sometimes when others say mean things to you. You didn't snap at me or, or bend to—to my will, or… whatever. You were… disappointed." She said the last word like it tasted foul. "I think I would've liked it better if you'd have hit me. N-Not that you would've ever done that, but… God, the way you looked at me, like… like you were disgusted. You've never looked at me like that."

Castiel felt a stinging ache behind his eyes and in his nose. "Well," he began, and swallowed, trying to keep his voice steady. "I did make you say it. You didn't want to—you caught yourself. But I made you say it, anyway."

"No! Don't apologize to me! I…"

"Brooke." He said her name just to stop her from talking, and buried his face in the crook between her neck and her shoulder, and cried.

"Cass," she breathed, and untangled herself from him and turned in the bed. "Cass, what's wrong?"

He pressed his forehead to hers, still crying. "Let's not fight anymore, okay?" he said.

"O-Okay." She sounded unsure.

"I… suppose we can't make promises to that effect, but…" He sniffled, laying a hand against her cheek. "I didn't mean to make you feel so awful."

"Well, I kinda deserved it."

"No. You were petty and mean a little bit, but…"

"I'm glad you said it, Cass. You kinda put a mirror in front of my face. I just… It hurt, but maybe it hurt like resetting a bone. It's terrible, but you have to do it, or the bone won't heal properly."

Castiel suddenly felt very tired. He wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands and then sat up in the bed. "Come on," he said.

"W-What?" she asked, sitting up with him. "Where are we going?"

"We're going to go… take a shower."

"Um…" She eyed him in the dark.

"No—no sex." He smiled. "Just come on."

She followed him into the bathroom. He kept the lights off—there was a nightlight plugged in for nightly trips the toilet—and turned on the shower. They undressed and then stood shivering as the water heated. He wanted to step closer to her, to wrap his arms around her for warmth, but he did not want this to become sexual. The second the water was warm, they got in eagerly and both sighed in audible relief as the water hit them.

"So, what are we doing?" she asked.

"You did this with me several years ago," he said. "It was… after a fight, or… after we got back from being tortured, maybe? I—I can't recall right now. You got into the shower with me and said that we were… being baptized. Starting over. That the water was washing us clean."

"I remember," she said, so quietly that he almost couldn't hear her over the sound of the shower.

They stayed in the shower for a while, letting the water run over them, and came together in an embrace. And Castiel realized something, and thought it silently, and remembered that she could not hear him. So, he said aloud, "Nothing feels better than this."

"The warm water?" she asked, a smile in her voice.

"No. The feeling of you holding me. I would give anything to feel this every day. Every moment."

She stared up at him in the dark, her face barely perceivable. "Oh, Cass…" She brought his head down toward her and kissed him, her mouth warm, and wet from the shower.

Everything really was better after that.