Disclaimer All recognizable characters/settings belong to their creators. The stories listed here are transformative works, from which I've made/am making no financial profit.

Warnings Language; references/allusions to torture and non-con.

14. The Zen of Fishing

The tapping on the door is soft but insistent enough to grate on Sam's nerves and he clamps his hands to his ears to shut it out, pushes himself further back into his corner, because the horror, the shame, the guilt, is overwhelming, so overwhelming he couldn't look at Bobby's white, appalled face one second longer before he crashed into the bathroom and slammed the door. He can't seem to get to the top of his breath so he's feeling spaced out and dizzy, and maybe he even needs to breathe into a paper bag to get back on terms with his oxygen requirements before he keels over on to the tile floor.

He's so lost in himself he doesn't even notice Hudak come in and sit next to him, arms wrapped around her knees.

"Dean told me he thought you had a turbo-powered hexbag," she offers quietly. "He said he thought you were using it to hide from Castiel when you were with Ruby."

Sam keeps staring, doesn't reply.

"It's not really your fault, Sam," Hudak says.

It's unconvincing enough that Sam rounds on her. "Of course it's my fucking fault, and you know it. I kept the damn thing so I could sneak around behind his back without Cas ratting me out. And then I wasn't careful enough with it. Explain to me how that isn't my fault."

Hudak clears her throat, cautious. "Well. When you put it like that." She's quiet for a minute before she continues. "Look, Sam. I'm not going to pretend I have a clue about what's been going on with you and Dean, but I know what it's like to lose my brother and I know that grief and loss can make people do things that might be—"

"Totally fucking stupid, and totally the opposite of what he asked me to do," Sam cuts in stiffly, and he sees her raise her eyebrows in his peripheral vision.

"I was going to say misguided."

"He said he didn't think it was Lilith and I didn't listen even though I know damn well his heart gets it right as often as my head does," Sam mutters. "I haven't been looking at this clearly since day one, Kathleen. And I bullied him into going along with me. Christ. If I could just—"

"Old man Bender wasn't trying to escape when I shot him," Hudak says suddenly.

It's so random that Sam pulls up short, his head whipping around.

Hudak shrugs. "He was right where you left him," she continues quietly. "Down, winged and defenseless. And I plugged that sonofabitch right between the eyes as he looked up at me. I did it because he killed my brother. He told me he did it because it was fun." She pauses, takes a deep breath. "Maybe you think I don't understand, Sam, but I do. And you know something?"

Sam doesn't reply, waits for her to keep going.

"Putting that bastard out of my misery didn't change anything," she murmurs, her eyes going distant. "It didn't bring my brother back, and I sure as hell didn't feel any kind of catharsis from killing him. I feel ashamed of it, that I let myself fall to his level. But here's the thing. I would do it again. Every damn time, and fuck due process." She stops, laughs wryly. "I've never even told your brother that. In fact it's the first time I've even acknowledged it out loud. But it seems to me you need to know, because reading between the lines here I think we both know that whatever you might have done?"

Sam shoots her another look at the question.

"You'd do it again too," she picks up. "If you thought it was the only option. Which we already know you do." She sharpens her voice then, makes it harder. "So what's the point of hiding in the bathroom and wallowing in guilt, Sam?"

Sam scrubs a hand through his hair. "But I don't know what to—"

"You fix it," she retorts. "We know Dean is alive and not in Hell, and now we know Lilith isn't involved. But that doesn't change the fact that all of the victims looked like him." She pushes up, pokes his boot hard with her foot. "Dean is the clue in this, Sam. You know him better than anyone, so you might know who the perp is. Dean is close by somewhere. And there isn't much time."

Sam looks up, and her face is weary, drawn with anxiety, distress, misery, but her eyes are bright and it suddenly occurs to him that they're the same penetrating blue as Castiel's.

"We've got a case to work, Sam," she says tersely. "You're not going to find your brother sitting on your ass in the bathroom feeling sorry for yourself."

Sam nods slowly. "Where do we start?"

The woods were never so tranquil as they are today, all dappled shade, wildflowers swaying in the breeze, and the rustle of the treetops whispering endearments in Dean's ears. It's an enchanted forest, and he half expects to see nauseatingly cute Disney chipmunks pop out of the bushes.

He casts off, hears the plop of the lure as it lands in the water, secures the fishing pole to the rod holder and leans back in his chair. The warmth of the sun on his face is soporific, and Dean rests one boot on his tackle basket, watches the water through lazy, half-closed eyes, and imagines the life teeming below the still surface, because there's a fuckin' Zen to fishing, isn't that what Kathleen said? Something mystical, communing with nature like he's taking the pulse of the planet, and if he's lucky it might even heal his soul. And he's in such a good mood he reckons today might just be a catch and release day, and maybe he doesn't even care if nothing bites because it isn't about the fish, it's about the fish-ing.

He dozes, but he can still hear the footfalls behind him. He knows he should snap alert, into defense mode, but some other feeling tells him he doesn't have to be afraid. When the hand rests gentle on his shoulder, it's accompanied by something, some buzz of static that makes his heart leap in his chest and thrills his nerve endings for a fraction of a second.

"Are the fish biting for you, Dean?"

"Nope," he murmurs, and he doesn't even open his eyes because he knows he's safe. "Not a problem, Cas. It isn't about the fish, it's about the fish-ing. There's a Zen to it."

There is a smile in Castiel's tone when he answers. "I'm glad to see you looking so well, my friend."

Dean snorts. "Here. Not there." He mulls what the angel said, sniffs. "Are we? Friends?" He hears the scurr of fabric, cracks an eye open to see that Castiel is taking off his trenchcoat and folding it into a messy bundle.

He blinks down at Dean and the smile Dean heard in his voice curls his lips up. "I believe we are friends," he says, and then he drops the coat onto the grass next to Dean, lowers himself down and sits on it cross-legged. He rolls up his shirtsleeves, plants his elbows on his knees, braces his chin on his hands, and stares at the river.

"I'm dreaming," Dean informs him helpfully. "I took your advice and thought about happy things." He stares out at the float drifting lazily in the current. "Though I didn't expect to end up here. My last happy thought before I fell asleep was a Hooters in Baton Rouge. There was this one waitress there and she had these really big, I mean, huge…" He holds out his hands, cups them in his imagination, thinks he might go cross-eyed.

"You aren't in Hell, Dean," Cas cuts in placidly. "In fact we're fairly sure Lilith isn't actually responsible for your disappearance."

Dean shakes his head. "She told me she was Lilith. And given that she's getting a big kick out of slicing me up, I'm inclined to go with her on this one, Cas. No offense."

The angel is quiet for a minute, and then, "Are you badly hurt?"

Pulling his brows together, Dean gives it some consideration. "My guts are still inside me," he says. "Just. But I'm bleeding like a stuck pig. So it doesn't look too good in the long term. I guess she'll just magic me whole again when the old ticker gives out. And my leg is broken. Hurts like a bitch." He stops, swallows thickly. "I've had worse," he adds softly. "But my shoulder. It's – well. She… uh. She cut me up some." He throws a shifty look down to where Castiel is sitting, sees the angel's eyes flick sideways too.

"What?" Castiel prods after a few seconds.

"The mark," Dean starts self-consciously. "You know. The handprint."

"What about it?"

"Is that the connection?" Dean blurts out. "I mean – if anything happened to it. Would that mean you wouldn't, uh—"

"Get a funny feeling about you?" Cas asks dryly.

Dean nods, finds he's feeling like an idiot for growing attached to the mark, the proof that good things can happen and that he deserved to be saved.

"My real mark is on your soul, Dean," the angel replies simply.

Oh. "Right. " After pondering that for a minute, Dean slants his eyes over again.

"What?"

"Uh. It's just that I thought souls were really… tiny. For some reason. Not big enough for a whole handprint. That's, like, as big as my liver."

"Roughly the size of a football and weighing about three pounds," Castiel supplies. "Your liver, that is. Your soul is an ontological reality distinct from your body. Although it is your immortal essence and as such is integrally connected to your body."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah. You know, I was just thinking that myself. Word for word." His tone is mocking, playful even, and Castiel studies his face for a moment, grins almost shyly, like he still isn't used to the expression, before he directs his eyes back towards the water.

Dean turns his attention the same way, scrunches up his nose as he reflects on the weirdness of it all. "Man, dreams have some fucked-up shit in them," he murmurs. "But at least this one is peaceful."

"Then perhaps you should stay in this dream for longer, Dean," Castiel says softly. "For some peace."

Dean sighs as his knee starts to jiggle. "I wouldn't have to if you weren't taking your own sweet time coming to get me, Cas," he complains. "If it isn't because she cut up the mark, is it because she already broke the last seal? So I don't matter any more? I know you said you never would have been sent and all that crap. But man, I really thought—" His voice cracks as his throat suddenly swells and dries with the sense of betrayal. "I know you didn't write the rulebook, but I really hoped you wouldn't just leave me here when I came back. It's pathetic, I know. But I really hoped you'd have the sac to do something about it."

Castiel huffs out. "But you aren't in Hell, Dean," he reiterates patiently. "You're confused, and your dreams of Hell are confusing you further."

Dean thinks on it for about ten seconds, scowls. "I'm not convinced," he says pointedly. "I mean. It's definitely her. Definitely. I think."

"Definitely you think?"

"Yeah. I mean – I just know her. Know it's her."

"Then she's using the same host?"

Dean throws up in his mouth at the thought of her, that simpering grade-schooler with her party dress, and ribbons, and rosebud mouth. "No, thank fuck," he clarifies. "Creepy little brat. What is it about little girls that age? Totally Audrey fuckin' Rose." He shivers, and then reminds himself of the bright side. "Alastair's pretty hands off this trip, though."

Castiel looks sharply up at him, frowns. "You think Alastair is here with you?"

"Yeah," Dean confirms. "Lilith doesn't cook too well, so he bought me a sub."

"A sub…marine?"

The angel stares up owlishly, and Dean can't help reaching out to ruffle his friend's hair. "Moron," he says affectionately. "Not ocean-going. All the meats. Subway."

Castiel's expression stays blank.

"It's a sandwich," Dean elaborates. "From Subway. A take-out food franchise. Tad healthy for me but what the fuck, beggars can't be choosers."

A reaction then, as Castiel tilts his head, thoughtful. "I see. Though I don't recall seeing any take-out food franchises in Hell when I was searching for you, Dean." He raises an eyebrow. "And I don't imagine Alastair was in the habit of providing a healthy lunch. In any case, Alastair is dead. Another clue perhaps? To the fact you aren't actually in Hell?"

Dean feels defensive suddenly, defensive about Hell, and that's all kinds offuckin' ridiculous. "Of course I'm in Hell," he splutters. "How can it not be Hell? You were there, you saw me in the desert, the ice… I'm trussed up, and chunks are being cut off me. By Lilith. And Alastair is here, I heard her call him that. How is this not Hell?"

"But we have—"

"I am the fuckin' authority here, Cas," Dean cuts in loftily. "I mean, Jesus. I of all people should know. I might add." He lifts a finger as Castiel starts to reply, stabs the air. "And don't say in fact you did add."

The angel pulls up short, seems taken aback, so Dean rattles on.

"And while we're on the subject, you haven't answered my question. Why haven't you come to get me? She can't hide me from you down here. Why the fuck is it taking so long?" He leans down closer, makes his voice spiteful and cold. "Unless you are leaving me here to rot for all eternity, you spineless dick. I can't believe you'd do that after all that crap about God having work for me. Jesus, it makes me want to—"

"Enough!" the angel cuts in, testy, maybe even aggressively, and Dean bites his tongue like he's told, because there's a second there when he thinks about Castiel's threat to throw him back into Hell.

He can't help a hollow cackle at the irony. "Or what?" he snorts. "It's not as if you can smite me back to Hell, is it?"

Castiel throws out his hands, fingers extended and rigid, chops at the air, and makes an undefined noise of frustration. "You try my patience," he growls. "At a time like this, when all could be lost."

"Well, you threatened me," Dean points out childishly.

"It was… I was – under duress," Castiel says after a moment of silence. "I regret saying what I did. And I apologize." He takes a deep breath, and when he continues his tone is as intense as it has ever been. "And I would never, will never, forsake you Dean. I would never knowingly or willingly countenance your return to Hell, and if it ever comes to pass I will find you again. I won't leave you there. Even if it means – disobedience."

Dean stares down at him, takes a few deep breaths, and finds that he has to break eye contact, turn this conversation away from something as heavy as he can see in Castiel's gaze. "Disobedience," he snarks. "Sounds like bad porn. Will there be convent school uniforms? And spanking?"

Castiel rolls his eyes as expertly as Dean ever has. "You aren't in Hell, Dean," he repeats, calm again. "That's why I can't find you. We believed Lilith had you and was cloaking you, but that isn't the case."

Dean rubs at his jaw, suddenly weary. "Then why?" he asks. "Why don't you come get me? Are you waiting for me to beg, is that it?"

"Listen to me, Dean, and try to stay in the dream," Castiel says, and now he's intense again, urgent too. "You're cloaked, but it isn't anything to do with Lilith. You borrowed Sam's clothing. His jeans, I believe. His hexbag is in the pocket, and—"

"Let me guess," Dean sighs. "It's the extra-crunchy one. Christ. When am I going to catch a fuckin' break?"

"Are you able to remove the hexbag from your person, Dean?" Castiel asks. "If you can do this, I'll be able to find you."

Dean scowls. "What part of Lilith trying to cut off the handprint do you not get, Cas? It hurts to move my arm. It hurts to do anything."

"You've had worse," the angel retorts bluntly.

It's an echo of Dean's words that he can't really deny, so he nods grudgingly in concession. "I guess it might feel better after I've slept on it," he grouches. "But even if the spirit is willing, if the flesh is weak, Cas, it won't matter how much I might want to move my arm. If I can't, I can't."

"But you'll try, Dean," Castiel insists. "Yes?"

"Yeah, I'll try," Dean tells him, and then, pissily, "Though I'll stake money on the damn thing being in the back right pocket."

Castiel nods, seems satisfied, and they sit in an easier silence for a few minutes until the angel speaks again. "Your captor," he starts. "You said you feel that you know her. We also think this may be likely, whoever she and her companion are. When I visited you in your dreams before, you said something… you said you were surrounded by the ghosts of your life. Memories, perhaps?"

Dean shrugs. "The ghosts of my life blow wilder than the wind. It's from a song." He shivers. "About regret, failure. Maybe memories. Yeah." He rubs at his brow. "She seems familiar. She seems like Lilith."

"And Alastair?" Castiel fishes. "You said he was hands off. That doesn't sound like Alastair."

"I guess," Dean agrees doubtfully. "Maybe he's just letting her go first this time."

"You need to try to remember who they really are," Castiel presses. "And find out where they are holding you."

Dean snorts. "Yeah, I'll put that on the end of my to-do list." He yawns, reaches up, luxuriates in being able to stretch tense muscles, work out the cricks. "If this is a dream I guess I'll wake up at some point," he ventures then. "Honestly, I don't really want to. Wake up, I mean. It's better here."

"It's unavoidable," Castiel says quietly.

"But if it isn't her, if it isn't Lilith…" Dean starts, cautious. "Then that means that if I, uh, didn't wake. I mean, if I – you know. That she, she – couldn't bring me back. Make me whole again."

"That's right."

Dean swallows hard. "And if that happens, Cas. If I don't wake. The deal. Where will I go? I mean… when you said that, about not leaving me there. Did you—"

"Yes," his companion says earnestly. "I did mean it. I can't give you assurances about whether the deal still holds, because I don't know. I haven't been told. But I meant what I said, Dean. I won't abandon you there. I willcome for you."

There's so much in Castiel's eyes, like a few moments before, and Dean finds he can't turn away from it this time, it's too profound, too much compassion, too much feeling in the words, too much care when he knows he doesn't deserve it. But even if he can't turn away from it, he can still detour around it. "This is all your fuckin' fault, you know," he bitches sulkily. "If you and your bro Uriel hadn't threatened Sam, he wouldn't have been sneaking around deep undercover in the first place."

Castiel stares up at him, raises an eyebrow. "I believe that's what you generally refer to as a reach," he says thinly.

Dean starts a reply, finds he's yelping, because shrilling agony is screaming through his shoulder, the pain boiling him from the inside out. He feels like's he's being peeled open there, cauterized maybe, and suddenly he's flat on his back, sweat and tears running down his face and the light is cutting in and out.

"You're waking… Dean."

Castiel is right in front of him now, translucent like before, but his eyes are luminous. "Try to remember, Dean. The hexbag. You need to try to get it away from you. Don't forget…"

Dean reaches out, tries to grip the trenchcoat. "Don't go, don't leave me here by myself, Cas… she's burning off the—Cas! Tell Sam! Tell him it isn't his fault, the hexbag, Cas, tell him I know it isn't his fault—"

He wakes to the flaring agony of his flesh being sheared off, the tender skin of his shoulder quaking under Lilith's ministrations, and her hair tickling his face.

"Okay, we have this cluster of victims, all after September," Hudak sums up as she tapes the two latest printouts to the board. "And we have David Lerman and Ethan Sturgis, both prior to September," she continues as she sidesteps to a corkboard with a map stapled to it. She pushes brightly colored thumbtacks into a map of the area, glances over at Sam. "Still using paper here," she says. "No fancy computer software like you must be used to in DC, Agent Roth."

Sam smiles weakly, shaking his head.

Coop rummages around on his desk, reaches over to hand Hudak another sheet. "Might as well get this guy up there," he suggests. "I'm still thinking he's the key to this, even if he is dead."

Sam knows it's the picture of Dean, and he feels the knot of tension behind his eyes pull tighter, rubs a knuckle hard across his brow and down to the bridge of his nose to ease the headache that threatens. He forces himself to stare at the map, tells himself there's a clue smack bang in the middle of it, buried treasure, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. He keeps his gaze fixed on it as Hudak silently tapes the picture up there too, higher than the others and separate.

"My gut is telling me this guy links all the others," Coop is saying, as he flicks through the file. "Jesus. He was a one-man crime wave. What a piece of work. Fucking psychopath."

Sam pushes up, scrapes the chair back on the floor loudly and aggressively, and the big man glances idly up at him as he strides up to the whiteboard, gazes at the map. It's level with his eyes, middle or thereabouts of the line of three tacks meandering down the map towards the cluster of red and pink that marks Duluth. Hibbing, and the memory makes Sam shudder reflexively.

"Finally got the file on the John Doe too," Coop is saying from behind him. "International Falls. I left a message with some guy – says he knows you and he'll call you back. Gamble? Joe or James. Some J name."

"International Falls?" Hudak chips in. "James Gamble… Yeah, I know him. It might save us jumping through all the hoops."

Sam feels like a damned fifth wheel here if he's honest, and he sways disconsolately in his dress shoes, gazes at that one word on the map until he feels a prickling sensation between his shoulders, the hair on the back of his neck cresting upright, the feeling of being watched. He spins, nervous suddenly, gets the usual sensation of air wafting by his face as the angel materializes and almost simultaneously touches his fingertip to Coop's forehead, cupping the big man's several chins as he slumps bonelessly forward onto his desk.

"Was that really necessary?" Hudak snaps icily, and Castiel cocks his head at her.

"Yes," he says curtly, and turns to Sam, continuing without missing a beat. "I met with your brother under more fortunate circumstances this time, Sam. In the dream, at least. He was fishing, and we—"

"Fishing?" Hudak interrupts. "You told him to think happy thoughts and he dreamed about fishing?"

"Yes… he told me there's a Zen to it."

Sam glances over at her, sees that her eyes are suspiciously bright as she stares at the angel, and she catches his look, blinks hard, and jerks her head over at the other detective. "I already have to listen to him complain about his knees," she complains. "Now I'm going to have to listen to him complain about his sluggish bowels."

Sam gapes distractedly at her for a minute and she raises her eyebrows.

"The finger," she barks. "It gives you constipation. Didn't Dean tell you?" She sits down heavily, palms her face. "And no, I can't believe I'm talking about bowel movements to an angel of the Lord either. This is totally surreal."

Castiel looks from Hudak to Sam and back again. "In fact, he told me he wasn't thinking of fishing when he fell asleep," he offers. "He was thinking of a Hooters in Baton Rouge, and specifically of a waitress with particularly large—"

"Does he know where he is?" Sam almost shouts, his voice high and thin. "Does he know who has him?"

"He concedes that the ghosts of his life may be memories," Castiel snaps back. "Regrets. But he's convinced that it's Lilith who has him, Lilith and Alastair. I attempted to dissuade him but he may not remember. And he doesn't seem to know where he's being held, but he mentioned that they brought food, from a Subway."

Sam swallows dryly. "Did you manage to tell him about the hexbag before he woke?" he mutters, and his hope is tarnished by a numb anxiety, because while Dean might have had some gut feeling he was angel-proofing himself when the need arose, he didn't know.

"Yes – although his injuries may mean it's difficult for him to retrieve—"

"His injuries?" Sam yelps almost simultaneously with Hudak. "Where is he hurt? How bad is it? Why the fuck didn't you say anything before?"

"The other dreams lasted only minutes before he woke," Castiel says. "It was easier to communicate with him this time because he was at peace. That's the way it works." He shrugs. "I didn't write the rulebook."

Sam clutches at the air, takes deep breaths. "Okay. So how badly is he hurt?"

"He thinks his leg may be broken," Castiel says briskly, and his voice is speeding up, tinged with distaste, discomfort maybe. "He's secured in place, and it would seem that whoever has him may be…" He pauses for a second. "Harming him."

"You mean torturing him?" Sam asks tightly, and the word leaves him hollow and cut open inside. "How? Exactly?"

Castiel stares at him, seems to be taking deep breaths himself. "Sam. Perhaps these are not details that you need to—"

"Yes. I do need to," Sam says, loud, clear, firmer than he feels inside, where his heart is hop-skip-jumping in his chest.

"He mentioned burning," the angel says then, his face carefully blank, his voice quiet, regretful. "And that he thought Lilith was trying to cut off the mark."

"The handprint?" Hudak cuts in. "That's — I don't even know what that is." She shakes her head. "Except to say it sounds like something our unsub would do."

Sam looks off into the distance, focuses on the clock on the wall over the door, the second hand counting away time. His headache has bloomed into a steel band around his brow, and he feels distant, like he's miles away from this, like he isn't even solid, because the one person who grounds him is out of his reach even though he thought he was holding on tight and never letting go again. Castiel's voice drifts into his consciousness only slowly, in fits and starts, and it turns out the angel has his hand on is arm, is steadying him.

"I said, has Bobby made any progress with the hexbag?" Castiel is saying. "With reversing the spell? Or has your friend done so?"

Sam's mouth flaps soundlessly for a minute, and Hudak catches the ball.

"No he has not," she says, weary and strained, and she shoots Sam a look. "I don't know if Sam's friend has. But we can start taking the sketch around the local fast food outlets. We might get a bead on whoever is helping her." She reaches for her phone as it blares tinnily, and then Castiel is talking to Sam again, deliberate and intense.

"Sam, your brother asked me to give you a message," he's saying, and Sam can feel tension radiating up his arm from where the angel still grasps it, or maybe it's his tension traveling the other way, he doesn't know.

"He told me to tell you that he doesn't blame you for the hexbag… that it wasn't your fault. Sam…" Castiel's expression is suddenly less stern, maybe even kind. "It's not your fault," he repeats. "Dean wants you to know that."

Sam's line of sight skitters away, back to the clock, then back to Castiel, and the angel is blank again, detached, a distance in his eyes that gives nothing away, a distance Sam recognizes and knows well by now because even if Dean doesn't blame him maybe Castiel does, and he knows the angel is damned right to hold him accountable. He's stepping back when Hudak looms up next to them, wide-eyed and jittery with adrenaline.

"That was Jim Gamble," she blurts out. "They're already holding a guy at the pen in Stillwater for one of these murders, the John Doe from International Falls. Jim says they caught him dumping the body. But get this – he's been denying he killed the guy from the moment they picked him up. He says it was his daughter who did it."