Twelve

It took Brooke quite a while to cry herself out, partly because of her connection to Castiel, who was just as sad as she was, but had no tears to cry. When she was done, she felt utterly exhausted, as one usually does after a good cry. Her eyes were tired, most of all, and she fought to keep them open, but they kept closing on their own.

Sleep if you'd like, Castiel told her, hold her against him as they sat on the floor.

She shook her head, no.

They were both silent for a while, which gave Brooke the chance to wake up a little more. She sat up fully, and then stood and pulled Cass to his feet.

He made a face as the wound in his stomach was pulled a little. "I was thinking that perhaps I should go to the store and stock up on food… since Sam and—and Dean left."

Brooke gave him a small, knowing smile. "Hoping food will get you back into Dean's good graces?"

Castiel glanced at her and looked away.

"Well, if anyone's heart is through their stomach," she said, "it's Dean's."

He looked at her, confused for a moment, thinking of anatomy. Then he realized she was speaking metaphorically and his expression cleared. "Yes," he replied.

She shook her head at him, laughing a little, and then held out her hand. "I don't have a car anymore. Again. So we'll have to teleport." She glanced at his stomach. "You gonna be okay with that?"

"Yes, I should be fine," he said, and took her hand.

###

Brooke watched with amusement as Castiel wandered the small convenience store, picking up things that he thought Dean would like. Beef jerky, a porno mag, beer… She said nothing, merely trailing along behind him and closing freezer doors for him as he walked away without closing them. His mind was buzzing with nerves, and ideas, hoping—praying—that all this stuff would make Dean love him again. It was sad, but it was also endearing. She thought back to a time, so long ago now, when Castiel had appeared in Bobby's kitchen, holding a bouquet of flowers and a giant box of chocolates for her, as an apology for some fight they'd gotten in.

When Castiel pulled out a carton of eggs and then opened the carton and stared at them, she rushed closer. Let's not do anything to the eggs, she said, taking them from him. He'd been staring at them as if he didn't know what eggs were. I know you don't eat, she said, but you're not stupid. You know where eggs come from, don't you?

He glanced at her, distractedly, and then wandered away again. Love me, Dean. Love me, Dean. That prayer cycled endlessly in his brain, though it was more of a feeling and less actual words.

Brooke shook her head a little, watching him wander down the aisles. Mostly to herself, she thought, You still love me, right? It was a joke, for she knew without a doubt that he did, but she felt his thoughts zero in on her all of a sudden, and looked up to find him standing an inch away from her face. "What—

He kissed her, hard, his wings snapping open almost automatically, like he was a bull in rutting season, showing off. Of course I love you, he said, and his voice was strong, like it was when he had to go Full Angel on something. You are my wife, the bearer of my Grace. He pulled away and she stared up at him, dreamily, dazedly. And then he turned and began wandering the aisles again, as if nothing had happened.

She laughed. The bearer of your Grace, she repeated, with a smirk. The whore to your angel.

He stopped, mid-stride, and turned to stare at her.

She shook with silent laughter, then suddenly felt eyes on her. Not Castiel's eyes. She turned to see that the cashier was staring at both of them like they were insane.

She glanced at Castiel, whose eyes flickered between her and the cashier. Oops, she said. We should probably go. The cashier thinks we're nuts.

Castiel blinked a few times, and then said, Right, and went up to the cashier, placing his basket on the counter. He rooted around in his coat pocket and pulled out a wad of bills, all crumpled up.

"No, no," Brooke said, quickly, not wanting the poor cashier to have to deal with that. She placed the carton of eggs on the counter and smiled apologetically at the poor teenage boy. She pulled a credit card out of her wallet and handed it to him. "Here."

The boy said nothing, and seemed to hesitate, but took the card from her hand, eventually.

Castiel, whose mental track was still Love me, Dean, suddenly noticed the display on the counter, advertising pie. But the case was completely empty. "Where's the pie?" he asked.

The kid glanced at the empty display, clearly done with Castiel's odd behavior, and said, "I think we're out."

Castiel suddenly reached across the counter and grabbed the kid by the collar of his shirt, pulling his face in close. "You don't understand," he growled. "I need pie."

"Cass!" Brooke yelled, alarmed.

A tell-tale rustling sound went off behind them. Angel.

"Put the virgin down, Castiel," said a voice.

Metatron? Brooke turned, and saw that it was, indeed, Metatron.

"What are you doing here?" Brooke asked. There was no judgement in her voice, only curiosity. Metatron had performed one heroic act that she knew of—rescuing Kevin Tran—but he had seemed otherwise disinclined to leave his hovel for any reason.

He smiled a little at her, then looked at Castiel again. "We need to talk."

###

Metatron had led them out of the store, all the while muttering about Heaven, and the angels, and how there was a lot of in-fighting going on. Naomi, apparently, wasn't in charge, as she had claimed to be. There were multiple factions up in Heaven, warring with each other, and Metatron wanted to… fix all of that. He spoke quickly, with a smile on his face, and Brooke couldn't help but think that he looked a bit like a madman. She couldn't help but recall that creepy vibe she'd gotten off of him back in his hovel at the lodge. And yet, at the same time, he seemed so excited, like a child bringing some project idea to his parents. And he included her, something that most angels, aside from her husband, did not do.

When she questioned him about why he wasn't shooing her away, he smiled brightly at her and said, "Well, you've married one of us, haven't you? And you've got part of Castiel's Grace in you. Doesn't that make you some kind of… honorary angel?"

She had stared at him for a moment, shocked at such a statement, and then smiled. She should've known, then, that nothing is ever so easy.

###

"Why are we here?" Castiel demanded, as they sat at an outside table at some restaurant.

Metatron had given them the name and location, and then vanished, expecting them to follow, which they had. "We're here," he said, "because I can't have this conversation on an empty stomach."

"Here you go," said a waitress, walking up to the table and setting a plate down in front of Metatron.

Brooke stared at the woman, somewhat alarmed. Cass, she said, and under the table, she squeezed his hand.

He looked at her. What is it?

The waitress. She's… an angel, or—something. I… She doesn't feel right.

Castiel, now just as alarmed as Brooke was, turned and stared at the woman.

"Can I get you anything?" the waitress asked, giving Castiel a look that Brooke did not appreciate.

Castiel opened his mouth, staring at her, then glanced at Metatron.

The rat-faced man shook his head, subtlety, and Brooke heard his voice brush her mind. Not yet.

The waitress stood there, waiting for Castiel to say something, but her expression was now confused. A little worried, maybe.

"Coffee," Castiel said, automatically.

"Sure," said the woman, smiling again. "Cool coat."

Brooke just about growled like an attack dog.

"No," said Castiel, "it's actually quite warm."

The fact that Castiel did not understand the word Cool, in this context, and the fact that he seemed completely unaware of the fact that he was being flirted with, calmed Brooke down a little, at least about that. Still, there was something wrong with the waitress. She was an angel, but… not. Brooke could sense Grace in her blood, but not as much as Castiel's, or Metatron's, like she didn't have very much.

The waitress smiled at Castiel. "Cute and funny," she said.

Brooke leaned forward to stare at the woman, holding up her hand, entwined with her husband's. "He's married," she said, loudly, emphatically. "To me."

The woman stared at her in horror. "O-Oh," she stuttered. "I-I… I'm sorry, I…" And then she walked quickly away, without taking Brooke's order.

Brooke huffed and sat back in the chair.

Don't be jealous of her, Castiel said, quietly. I love only you.

Brooke smiled and inclined her head. Me and Dean, she amended.

Castiel did not disagree with her, but said, I love you as my wife, the one who shares my bed, the one who shares my thoughts and my Grace. Is that not enough?

It's enough, she murmured. And it was. And they both knew it. She smirked. Whore to your angel.

I wish you would stop saying that, he muttered.

Metatron was staring at them. "What are you two prattling about in your heads?" he asked.

Brooke smiled, but did not reply. "What's up with the waitress?" she asked. "She's got Grace in her, but not… a lot. Was she possessed, like me?" She was no longer alarmed about it, necessarily, since neither Castiel nor Metatron had gone into attack mode, but it was still strange. But strange was an everyday occurrence for a Hunter, and perhaps that was why Brooke had gotten over her shock so quickly.

Metatron smiled at her. "Something like that," he said.

Brooke narrowed her eyes at him, suddenly more concerned about Metatron than she was about whatever was up with the waitress. He knew more than he was letting on. Something's going on here, she said, to Castiel only.

He acknowledged her, silently, and then asked aloud, "What did you mean we can shut down Heaven?"

Metatron began to dig into his plate of crepes. "Oh, you know, the trials—God's little 'pull in case of emergency.'"

Cass shook his head, confused.

"The Leviathans get out of control, you put them in Purgatory," Metatron explained. "Demons get a little demonic, toss 'em into Hell. Angels get uppity, slam the pearly gates."

"Are you saying you know the trials to close Heaven?"

"I wrote 'em down. It's not something you forget."

Brooke and Castiel remained silent, staring at the Scribe.

"Look," he said, "I think a little alone time would be good for the angels. At the very least it would stop the fighting up there from spilling out down here, which will happen. It always does."

Brooke nodded. "The Apocalypse," she muttered. "The ages-long fight between two brothers."

Metatron pointed his fork at her. "Exactly."

Castiel studied Metatron. "You're gonna complete these tests?" he asked, as if he didn't believe Metatron could do it.

"No," Metatron replied, pushing his food around on his plate. "I can't. I am a pencil-pusher. Always have been." He looked defeated and small. "I'm not strong enough. But you—you are a warrior."

Oh, no, Brooke thought, finally understanding. He wants you to do the trials.

"I've got the plan," the Scribe went on. "You've got the muscle." He glanced at Brooke, as he said, "We can do this," as if to remind her that she was being included. That her opinion mattered.

Castiel looked down, shaking his head.

"I don't—I don't like this," Brooke said. "Sam is completing his own trials to close the gates of Hell and the trials are… they're killing him." She looked at her husband. "I know you have this thing where you sacrifice yourself for the greater good, always think you're doing the right thing, but if this kills you… where does that leave me?"

"Of course, these trials won't be easy," Metatron said, quietly. "But nothing worth it ever is."

"Couldn't you choose some other angel?" Brooke asked.

The Scribe laughed a little. "What other angel would I choose, hmm? All of them, besides Castiel, here, are too busy fighting up in Heaven, and might turn their weapons on me simply for asking."

Brooke sighed, feeling that he was probably right. Castiel—and now Metatron—were the only two angels she had personally met for any length of time who weren't hell-bent on killing her or someone close to her. Samandriel had been good, too, and he had been killed in the name of Naomi's sick cause.

"I still don't like this," she said, but couldn't find the heartlessness required to turn Metatron down. Besides, it wasn't really her decision. She had let her opinion be known, but it was up to Castiel.

He gazed at her, silently, for a long time, as if searching for something. If you, truly, do not wish me to—

It has to be your decision, Castiel, she said. I appreciate you for saying that you wouldn't if I didn't want you to, but… This is an angel problem, isn't it? It has to be an angel's decision.

He held her gaze for another few seconds, and then sighed heavily. He reached up to caress her face, and she felt the metal of his wedding ring against her cheek. "I am the one that caused these problems," he said, softly. "I should be the one to fix them."

And she knew, right then, that he would do whatever it took to accomplish this plan of Metatron's. She took a deep, shuddering breath. Just come back to me.

I'll try, he said, for he would not make a promise he didn't know if he could keep.

"I'd like to reiterate that this is not going to be easy," Metatron spoke up, as Brooke shoved all of her apprehension down into the deepest pit of her mind.

Castiel looked at him, inclining his head. "I understand."

"No, you don't."

Brooke and Castiel looked at Metatron with questioning expressions.

"The waitress," Metatron explained, glancing at Brooke. "You felt her Grace the second she showed up. You're more perceptive than I thought you'd be." He flicked his eyes back to Castiel. "She's the first trial—gotta cut her heart out."

"What?" Castiel hissed. "No, she's…" He had been about to say that she was just a girl—Brooke could hear the rest of the thought in his head—but she clearly wasn't. "What is she?"

"She's a Nephilim. An abomination."

Brooke's blood ran cold. She looked at Castiel and swallowed. He glanced at her, as well, and they shared a feeling of painful emotional discomfort. They had never exactly spoken about Nephilim with each other, but it was something that they both thought of instinctively every time they had sex. Brooke had never asked, probably because she'd been afraid to, what would happen if she ever got pregnant, accidentally or not. It had simply been an unspoken rule that condoms were always to be used, and that back-up contraceptive was to be taken in the event that a condom had broken, which had never happened.

Castiel finally tore his eyes away from Brooke, but took her hand again, under the table. "Nephilim aren't allowed," he murmured, and his voice wavered, betraying the fact that he was just as shaken by this topic as she was.

"No," Metatron agreed. "There's only one on Earth, and you are looking at it."

Both Brooke and Castiel turned and looked at the waitress, and whatever instinctive, stupid jealousy or annoyance that Brooke had felt towards her vanished.

"But she didn't choose to be a Nephilim," Castiel said, turning back to the Scribe. "She's innocent."

"Yes, she is," Metatron said, shrugging his shoulders sadly. "I told you it wasn't going to be easy. But if you wanna do this, Castiel—if you really wanna do this, you gotta ask yourself what's more important? Her life, or your family?"

Brooke put her elbows on the table and hid her face in her hands. "This is fucked up." Then she turned to her husband. "I know I just said I would let it be your choice, but I am not letting you murder an innocent woman—Nephilim or no. This isn't right, and you know it."

Castiel looked like he wanted to argue, but could think of nothing to counter her. He stared at her, sadly.

"Look," said Metatron. "Brooke, you were the one who brought up the Apocalypse when I said that fights between angels always end up spilling out and messing up stuff on Earth. Wouldn't you have done anything to stop the Apocalypse from happening? Didn't you?"

Brooke could see his point, but his current fear seemed unfounded. "When we were trying to stop the Apocalypse, there was irrefutable proof that it was going to happen," she said. "Your fear about angel in-fighting spilling out onto Earth and destroying things… I haven't seen any evidence of it."

"You call Naomi messing with your brains, making Castiel spy on Sam and Dean, and then making him beat the crap out of Dean no evidence?" Metatron threw up his hands. "That was only the tip of the iceberg, and Naomi isn't even the most dangerous angel up there." He leaned forward and stared into Brooke's eyes. "Naomi didn't want you harmed because she knew that if you were, Castiel would go nuclear and destroy everything. But there are angels in Heaven who would kill you, just to sit back and watch Castiel destroy Earth, and decimate every demon in Hell so that they would no longer have to deal with them. They think they could stop your angel from destroying Heaven, too, but they're wrong."

Brooke and Castiel were both struck silent at the idea.

"The angels are in turmoil," Metatron continued, his voice low and serious. "I don't want to have to kill this girl anymore than either of you, but if we don't complete these trials, the things that could come out of Heaven…" He shook his head. "The Apocalypse would seem like a vacation in comparison."

Brooke closed her eyes, and took a breath. She swiped at the corners of her eyes and muttered, "Fine. But I won't watch you do this, Castiel."

"I won't relish doing it," he replied.

She sighed. "I know." Then she stood up from the table. "Look, I'll get a motel nearby and text you the address, for whenever… whenever it's done." She looked away for a moment. "Don't come back with blood all over you."

She shook her head, thinking, Have we learned nothing from that time you thought you needed to absorb all the souls in Purgatory to kill Raphael?

Castiel saddened at the thought, and turned to Metatron. "Are you sure there's no other way?"

The scribe offered a sympathetic grimace. "I'm sure, unfortunately."

Brooke nodded, then leaned down over her husband and kissed him, softly. Straightening, she turned and looked Metatron, nodded to him, and left.