Eight

Castiel did not return, at least as far as Brooke could tell. She remained in Rufus' cabin for days, as Sam and Dean went off to solve some case. Castiel did not try to reach out to her, even in dreams, and she did not pray to him—or tried her best not to. It was difficult, trying not to think about him all the time. She found herself subconsciously twisting her wedding ring around and around her finger with her thumb, or rubbing the tattoo of his name on her arm.

She did not sleep well at night, plagued by nightmares that left her sweaty and shaking. Being alone in the cabin at night probably didn't help. They had warded the place against angels, and she—of course—salted the doors and windows against demons, but the emotional part of her brain was not soothed by the logical side that told her nothing could get her here.

She missed Bobby, perhaps even more than she missed Castiel. It was strange to think about, but with her mind all twisted up like it was, what she wanted most was someone to pat her back like a child and tell her she was all right. Castiel had done this for her many times, but she craved that harsher tone from Bobby Singer. What she wanted was for someone to hold her; what she needed was for someone to tell her to get off her ass. Castiel was, presumably, up in Heaven—a place he'd told her he was going to return to, anyways. She had no idea how long he would be there, or what was wrong with him, or why her memory was so fucked, but there didn't seem to be much she could do about any of those things, and she felt useless sitting around Rufus' cabin for days…

Just when she was starting to become truly restless, Dean called her to tell her that he and Sam were on their way back to her, and that she should pack whatever stuff she might have. He sounded strangely happy.

"What's up?" she asked him, somehow distrustful of that joyful tone.

"You'll see," he told her.

###

The bunker was… something. Much like the Winchesters, Brooke had never really had her own place before. Well, she had, once. Years ago, now, before a demon had possessed her and forced her to walk into a warehouse and sit down in a chair. Back then, she'd shared an apartment with some roommates. But since then, she'd slept in motels or cars… or out in the open, sometimes, with Castiel.

Castiel, who still had not contacted any of them. It had been over a month, now. Most of the time, Brooke stayed in the bunker. In truth, she still wasn't sleeping well. She'd even tried some pills that were supposed to knock you out, but all that did was make her groggier than usual when she'd wake up out of nightmares in the morning.

Having her own room was nice, even if she didn't get much sleep in it. The first thing she thought of, though, was that the bed was too small for two people. That had been when she'd first moved in, and she had almost asked one of the boys to help her push another bed into the room, before remembering that Castiel was gone off to Heaven, and that he'd murdered an innocent boy before he'd left.

Brooke kept herself busy in the bunker, helping the boys with lore research when she could. She never went out Hunting with them, or on her own. A Hunter trying to Hunt on almost no sleep usually only meant one thing: death.

She did go with them, once, to go see Kevin after he called them with information about the demon tablet. They needed to leave soon afterwards, and Brooke offered to stay with Kevin in Garth's safe-houseboat, but Kevin snapped at her that she would just bug him like his mom did, reminding him to eat and sleep.

"Would that be such a bad thing?" she asked him.

"Yes," he said. "I just want all this to be over. If I'm constantly sleeping, how am I supposed to translate the rest of this? I can sleep when it's done."

Or when you've worked yourself to death, she thought, but said nothing.

###

Time passed, and Brooke continued not sleeping, wandering the bunker alone. She found herself accidentally bumping into things, and nodding off anytime she sat down. Small nightmares would plague her, even then, mostly images of Castiel's face, emotionless and robotic, coming toward her with murderous intent.

Then, they began to change. There he would be, kneeling over her chest, about to plunge an angel blade into her face, and suddenly—

He bent down over her, his mouth against her ear, and hissed, "Help me—

Brooke came awake with a gasp, his plea still echoing around in her head: "Help me."

Help me.

Help me.

His voice, his face… they had been so clear, that time. So loud that it had woken her up. Like he'd been standing over her in the chair she'd fallen asleep in.

Brooke fumbled in her pocket for her cellphone and called Dean.

He picked up on the fourth ring. "Brooke?"

"Dean," she hissed, whispering into the phone as if Castiel was spying on her, invisibly, from the corner of the room. "Something's wrong with Cass."

"Yeah, I know. He's acting really weird."

Brooke stared at the wall in front of her. "What?" she asked, faintly.

"He didn't tell you he was back?"

The phone nearly slipped from her fingers. He was here. He was on Earth. "No," she told Dean. Something really was wrong if Cass had made it back to Earth and hadn't told her. And now, this dream… "Listen to me," she said, speaking quickly. "I told you I would tell you if I ever found anything weird about him, and I'm telling you. I don't know what it is, but he just… he just tried to communicate with me in a dream, and…" She paused, shaking her head, trying to figure out what was most important for Dean to know. "Don't go anywhere alone with him," she finally said, the image of him stabbing her in the eye with an angel blade playing and replaying in her mind.

"Wait a minute," said Dean. "You said he tried to communicate with you in a dream? Brooke, you've been having nightmares for weeks. How do you know—

"Just trust me," she snapped, too worried about the wellbeing of the boys—all three of them—to care about her tone of voice. "This last dream was… different."

"Fine."

Brooke took a breath. "Where are you, again?"

He told her.

"I'm coming there," she said, standing up out of the chair and making her way to the stairs up and out of the bunker. "Cass… he asked me to help him. I think he needs me." It sounded so stupid when she said it out loud, as if Castiel were incapable of taking care of himself if she wasn't there. But it had truly felt that way in the dream. He had begged her to help him, and she had every intention of doing so.

###

It was going to take six hours to get from the bunker to Lincoln Springs, Missouri, where the boys were, and Brooke wasn't feeling very optimistic that she would get there in time. In time for what, she had no idea. But she could still hear that utter desperation and fear in Castiel's voice; it swirled around in her brain like a hurricane.

She was driving a car that Dean had stolen for her some time ago (Sam had driven it back to the bunker, following Dean, who was in the Impala). They'd presented it to her, happily, and she had been grateful, but had not yet found a reason to use it. As she drove it for the first time, down the freeway, she did feel a little guilty (as she did every time) that the car was not hers. It had been stolen from some poor fool. But when you were a Hunter, you didn't have time to feel bad about stealing. Still, she missed her car, the one she had taken from Bobby's scrapyard. Now, it was probably sitting rusted out somewhere. In fact, she didn't even remember where she'd last used it. All those memories were sort of muddled together, and she was low on sleep, which made only matters worse.

She shook her head, and turned the radio on, loud, and rolled down the windows. Anything to keep her awake on a six-hour drive.

She knew she would make it. She had to. She felt like she could still feel Castiel's breath in her ear, that desperate hissing voice: Help me.

She drove faster.

She was half an hour away when she got a text from Dean, with an address attached: Going in with Cass. Not alone. Sam & Meg outside.

###

Brooke braked the car so hard the tires squealed and stumbled out of the front seat. It was nighttime, and it was dark, but she could see Sam and Meg fighting demons outside the crypt. More importantly, she could feel Castiel's Grace, and it was… wrong. It twisted around itself and screeched and pulled.

Brooke was torn, half of her wanting to stay outside and help protect Sam and Meg. Meg. She knew, now, that some part of her was in love with Meg, just as some part of Castiel was in love with Dean.

Dean. That was more important—getting to Castiel and Dean.

Brooke sprinted into the building, dodging the outstretched hand of a demon. Meg pulled him back, smirking at Brooke as she passed, but there was no time to slow down.

She was dragged along by the string connecting her to Castiel, the Grace in her blood singing the same notes as the Grace in him. But the notes were discordant and ugly and too loud. Her veins were on fire. She heard Dean's voice echoing from the room they were in.

"Cass, this isn't you."

Punch.

Brooke burst into the room. Castiel did not even turn around. She could not see Dean's face, but she saw him kneeling in front of the angel, his crumpled form visible between Castiel's legs.

"Cass. I know you're in there. I know you can hear me. Cass… It's me."

Brooke sprinted around the objects in the room and fell to her knees beside Dean, then crawled forward so that her body was in front of his. Castiel, she said, silently. I will not let you kill Dean. You'll never forgive yourself. She had not had a chance to really look at Dean, but she'd seen a flash of his pulpy, bloody face, and it broke her heart.

"We're family," Dean said, his voice breaking from pain—physical and emotional.

Stop, Castiel, Brooke added. You asked me to help you and I'm here.

And then she took hold of his Grace, as she had only done previously in their bed, and gripped it tightly, anchoring him to this moment, making him feel pain. Not enough to truly debilitate, but enough to ground him back down to reality. She could see his face, and he was so… emotionless.

And she finally understood all those nightmares, where he had come at her with an angel blade, his face passive and robotic, and stabbed her. It had been leading to this, somehow. She didn't know why or how, but she knew it had all been leading to this. The blade glinted in his hand.

You can't kill Dean, she said again. You love him. And she kept her tight grip on his Grace, and watched his face twist in pain.

"We need you," Dean said, from behind her. "I need you."

A voice suddenly sounded in Brooke's mind. Naomi. You have to choose, Castiel. Us or them.

"Cass," Dean begged.

"Castiel," Brooke echoed. "Please."

And he seemed to notice her for the first time, then. His eyes flicked down to meet hers, then looked behind her at Dean. The angel blade fell from his hand. He looked shattered.

Dean seemed to lose all strength in his body, and fell over off of his knees, crying out in pain. Brooke turned to him, briefly, and laid a hand on his arm. There was nothing she could do for him right now. When Castiel moved, she whipped her head around again, afraid he was about to murder both of them.

But he only reached down and picked up the tablet off the floor. Light poured from the tablet and into him when he touched it, blinding Dean so that she felt him turn away behind her. But Brooke could look into the light without going blind, and she did. And the light was beautiful. But she could not appreciate its beauty in this terrible moment.

The light vanished after a moment, and Castiel turned to face Brooke and Dean again. He reached down toward them, his right hand extended, and Brooke flinched, throwing herself over Dean, still unsure of the angel's true motives. Castiel looked heartbroken at her actions, but kept reaching, past her.

"No," said Dean, terrified, as that hand kept reaching.

Without thinking, Brooke snatched Castiel's wrist, pushing his hand away. And touching him revealed, suddenly, his intentions. "Oh," she breathed.

The angel looked at her sadly, and then began to reach for Dean again. The Winchester's breathing became erratic with fear. "Cass," he said, and was nearly crying.

Brooke laid a hand on him again, turning to face him. "Shh," she said, as if Dean were a small, scared child. "It's all right now. He won't hurt you."

Dean glanced between her and the angel, his eyes wide with terror.

"Dean," said Brooke, her voice gentle. "It's all right. He wants to heal you."

Dean found her eyes again, stared at her, and nodded. Still, he flinched when the angel touched him, gripping the sleeve of his coat.

Brooke watched as the bloody mess of his face healed.

Behind her, Castiel said, "I'm so sorry, Dean."

Dean stared up at him. "What the hell just happened?"

Brooke stood up, her knees aching from pressing into cold concrete for so long, and offered her hand to Dean. He took it and she pulled him up. Then she stood, quietly, beside Castiel. His Grace was mostly calm, though there was still a little bit of turbulence inside him as he thought about every awful punch to Dean's face that he had landed.

Memories, previously hidden from both of them, flooded his mind, and Brooke's. Naomi had done it all.

Castiel explained, as best he could, to Dean.

Naomi had rescued both Castiel and Brooke from Purgatory. And she had been controlling him ever since, at least for the most part. She had been, partially, the cause of Brooke's awful nightmares. Anything to keep her quiet and out of the way while Castiel did the job that Naomi had brought him back for: to get the angel tablet, and to keep an eye on the Winchesters while he was at it.

And she had kept this all from Castiel, had manipulated him, had tortured him. Had made him kill Dean a thousand times in practice runs, trying to break his spirit, remold him into the perfect soldier. Trying to remold him into what she believed an angel was supposed to be. And in keeping it all from Castiel, she had kept it from Brooke, whose mental connection to the angel made it easy to tamper with both sets of memories.

"Well, what broke the connection?" Dean asked, at the end of the tale.

"I don't know," Castiel admitted. "I just know that I have to protect this tablet now."

"From Naomi?" Dean asked.

"Yes… and from you." Castiel stared at the Winchester, his eyes sad. He turned to Brooke as Dean began to protest, and reached out with a hand, brushing it against her cheek.

Goodbye, he thought. And vanished.

Brooke wanted to fall apart, right there. She had finally gotten him back, without Naomi's influence, and now he was gone again. But there was no time to fall apart, yet.

Sam came charging down the steps, asking where Cass was and telling them that they needed to leave. Crowley was outside. He was outside… with Meg.

"No," she said, and charged up the steps.

The boys followed behind her and Dean yanked her arm so hard that she thought it might have come out of its socket.

"Crowley is that way," he hissed, and pulled her along a different way, to a different exit.

"Meg," Brooke said, unable to voice the rest of it. Her brain was too scrambled by everything that had just happened.

"Who cares about Meg?" Dean said.

"I DO!" Brooke screeched.

Dean turned back and clamped a hand over her mouth. His eyes were intense. "Meg is keeping Crowley busy so that we can get away. She knows what she signed up for." He faced forward again and yanked Brooke's arm, dragging her farther away.

She barely remembered getting into the car, and turned around once she was there. Meg had stabbed Crowley in the arm with an angel blade. Crowley screamed, and took the blade from his arm, and stabbed Meg in the chest with it; she fell to the ground, the life drained from her.

The tires of the Impala squealed as Dean drove away, but the sound was drowned out by Brooke's screams.