AN: I did not mean for this story to turn into a friggin' novel when I started it, but I'm actually lovin' all the story-telling involved. Sorry if this chapter gets pretty gory, but I promise it will get better! And there will be slash!

Reviews would be excellent, guys. I'd love to know what your thoughts are on this series. I'm actually kind of nervous about it. Whether you love it, hate it, or really just want the boys to get naked already, let me know!

-G

~o~

Tethered

Chapter Two: Snake in the Grass

There was something dripping. Every few seconds, a subtle ker-plop broke the throbbing silence. Whatever was the source of the leak, Dean got the sense that it couldn't be good. That wasn't any normal drip; it was too thick a sound. The room smelled of blood.

Dean tried to remember where he was. He couldn't. Head hurt too bad. Then there was that damn dripping, making it too hard to think. Well, if he didn't know where he was (or had been, last time he was conscious) it probably didn't matter. All there was now was dark. Dark, dripping, and the smell of blood. He let his head drop back down to his chest, ready to fall back into whatever senseless void he'd emerged from, when he thought of something terrible:

He was alone.

Even if he was lost in the dark, Dean's brain reminded him there was someone more important than himself that warranted concern.

"S-Sam?" Dean's tongue was dry. It felt like a bit of wood in his mouth.

Nothing answered. Only dripping.

Not only did his head hurt, his muscles were lax and useless. Can't move, can't move. Nothing but that dripping sound and his dry tongue. For a moment he struggled uselessly, but his brain couldn't order his arms to listen, couldn't get his legs to respond. He was stuck, trapped in some senseless place too far above unconsciousness to drift into the relief of sleep.

Where was Sam? If Sam were there he could help. Or maybe Sam was just as trapped.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Dean remembered black eyes. The smell of motor oil. Rain. Wind.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

He'd been running. Screaming. Trying to fight. Trying to get in. No, no, it was too late to help. Sam was… Sam was…

"Demons," he gasped, the word as soiled and terrible in his throat as the creatures themselves. He was starting to remember. The storm, the inn, the fallen tree, the old garage. Then that demon. The demon possessing Barry. It had cornered Sam before Dean even knew what was happening. And Cas…they needed Cas. Cas could help them. Dean remembered that much; they were going to call Cas, because Cas couldn't find them. Cas couldn't find them. Shit.

It was like inching his way closer to the surface, being pulled down in one direction but so desperate for the other. He felt his memory kick in, the gears in his head turn although their progress was slow and labored. His head – God dammit, his head. There was blood pumping in his ears, strumming a rapid beat above the sharp twang of the dripping. He wanted out of the dark – it was putting too much focus on the pain.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

"Sammy," he said again. The sound seemed small, like he was in some empty place. Empty and cold. Even as he thought it, he shivered. The tremor through his muscles assured him somehow that at least he wasn't dead. Probably. Dammit, why couldn't he see?

A small sound scuffled some length away from Dean. His ear twitched immediately, as if pulling him in the direction of something other than the darkness and dripping. Whatever it was that made the noise made it again, louder and closer this time.

"Sam?" His voice was almost desperate. He coughed at the dryness in his throat.

When he heard the sound again, it was right beside him. It was something large, human-sized. Dean flinched instinctively away from the thing. That wasn't Sam. Couldn't be.

Something touched his shoulder, moving to the front of his chest and slowly trailing up his neck, ending at his chin. He became aware that someone was sitting on his legs. The thing, the stranger, made a noise like a chuckle.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean tried to sound stern, strong, authoritative. But his voice was no more than a dry husk. He coughed again.

The someone tutted, clucking their tongue against the roof of their mouth. Dean already hated this douche bag, demon or no demon. Their weight was settled with far too much familiarity over Dean's lap. If he could move his legs, he'd kick the intruder off.

"Feeling a little funny, huh Dean?" said a woman's voice. She spoke in the same slick, patronizing tone that all demons favored. The whispering waft of her breath blew over Dean's face, making him aware of just how close she was. "Yeah, sorry about all this bull-shit. But you Winchesters are tricky little things. Can't have you just sneaking off, now can we? Not after we put so much work into getting you here." A hand touched his face. It was cold. As she moved her hand over his cheek, Dean realized that he was bleeding; the warm, slick wetness on his skin only then became so apparent.

"What'd you do to me, you bitch?" Dean said, slurring more than anything else. There was an unfamiliar queasiness bubbling through his stomach. He must have lost a lot of blood already, and whatever demon mojo this chick was pulling on him, it definitely wasn't helping.

The she-demon laughed, low and arrogant. "Oh, just a little of that old black magic." Her finger tickled the underside of his chin, making him want to vomit for a whole new reason. "I'm starting to think we gave you boys too much of it, though. You've been pretty out of it for a whole day! We've lost so much time."

Dean jerked his head away from her touch, glad to have that motor skill at least. There must have been some spell cast over him, keeping his muscles weak and his mind slow. Gradually, he could feel his senses returning; so far he had gained some control over his head and neck, enough to recognize that he'd been blindfolded, which explained the darkness.

"Time for what?" Dean practically growled. "You and your demon buddies gonna have yourselves a little blood orgy?"

The demon chuckled again. "No one told me you were so adorable! Like a little puppy-dog, ain't cha? Just so spunky." Her breath heated the side of his neck, and Dean got the disturbing impression that she was smelling him. "Oh, and I haven't introduced myself, have I? I know so much about you, Dean, it's only fair you should know who I am."

"You're dead meat, that's who you are."

"Not quite. My friends call me Madeline."

All at once, where there once was blackness, now was light. So much so that Dean almost cried out with the sharp pain in his eyes. He immediately closed his lids, turning his head away from the unknown source.

The demon-bitch on top of him, however, seemed tickled-pink at his reaction. "Aw, sorry about that, Dean. I just wanted to get a look at your pretty face." She grabbed Dean by the chin and wrenched his face forward, nearly bumping noses with him. Her eyes were the customary pit-fall black, narrowed in speculation as she looked him over. "Hm, shame we've gotta kill you," she said, sounding mockingly thoughtful. "You would have made a nice little toy. Well, maybe there's still a little time for that, you think?" She gave a high-pitched giggle and let go of Dean's face, roughly pushing him away as she got to her feet.

Dean looked up at her from his position of the floor. She was in the body of a young woman, maybe twenty-two or so. Damn demons were so predictable. If they were laying siege to a town, the head bitch always picked a hot chick to possess. "Where's Sam?" Dean barked. His voice was stronger now, his throat not quite so raw.

The demon, Madeline, laughed again. Her head tossed back slightly, sending her wild red curls into a frenzy. "Oh you should have heard yourself when you first came to. You were whimpering like a damn baby. Sam, Sammy?" she said in a pitiful, simpering derision of Dean's voice. "You're brother's fine. Take my word for it, Dean, you should be more worried about yourself." She gave him a glittering smile as her eyes shifted back to human normalcy. With a wink, Madeline turned and went to the door, ignoring Dean's raspy threats to kill her and all her demon buddies if they so much as touched his brother.

The door clicked closed without a word from her.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Dean's eyes followed a droplet of blood as it fell from the tip of his nose to join a whole pool of crimson beneath him. The droplet made a soft ker-plop sound. He was sitting with his legs splayed slightly, his back against the wall. A pink wall. So he was back at the Pink Place. Bleeding to death, slowly.

In some other part of the house, a woman screamed in assumed agony. A man's distinct voice cried out in protest.

"Sam." Dean's head lifted, ears trained to hear his brother's voice again. It had definitely been Sam. Yes, yes, come on, Sammy – Sam was alive. If he was alive enough to try and fight for some woman's life, then that was piece of mind enough for Dean.

He was just about to scream – anything to let Sam know he was alive too. Just as Dean took a breath in, an acrid smell reached his nose. It made him pause, then stop altogether. That smell…it was familiar.

"Oh shit."

The smell was familiar, because it was the very same thing he'd smelled before passing out in Barry's garage. Not a moment later, darkness came without a blindfold and Dean slipped back into void.

~o~

Madeline the demon was happy. She couldn't remember being this pleased with an operation since the time she assisted with the Chicago fire of 1871. This job was bigger, better; the highlight of her career. After this ritual, she'd be the hottest bitch in Hell.

For this reason, Madeline was unabashedly smiling as she left Dean in the attic and went downstairs to the first floor. Her glee only increased with the sight that met her there.

When she'd gone upstairs to pay Dean a visit, there'd been two humans in the room – the Winchester team's better half, and some nameless girl that Madeline's troops had chained up for fun. Well, there was still basically two humans left in the room, the latter was just a bit…spread out. Blood was splattered over the walls, adding a bit of fashion sense to an otherwise disgusting room. Over the fire that was crackling with all the spite of Hell in the hearth, a large cauldron was hung, releasing a delicious scent into the room. Madeline stopped to inhale as she stepped in from the stairs. Ahh… Nothin' like boiling flesh to calm the mind. Once the flesh was removed from the girl's bones, she'd make a nice virgin sacrifice for their ritual. Madeline grinned at the thought.

The demon's attention was drawn away from the slowly stewing girl in the fireplace at the sound of someone's sniveling. Her eyes shifted black as they fell upon Sam; the man's arms were tied back, his clothes stained with blood and ripped in many places. He struggled to turn his head, giving Madeline the best glare that he could. With a light laugh, Madeline flicked her fingers, tightening the magical hold that was keeping Sam tethered to the floor. He gave a cry of pain, his teeth gritting.

"Sammy Winchester, so glad you're making new friends," she said, gesturing around to the half dozen demons that had been assigned babysitting duty. Madeline sat herself down in one of the inn's gaudy pink armchairs in front of the roaring fireplace. She crossed her legs daintily and accepted the martini offered to her by one of her associates.

At her feet, Sam Winchester was crouched, forced to kneel with his head practically digging into the rug. The large man standing above Sam pressed his boot harder into the hunter's back, bowing him lower down into what appeared to be a rather uncomfortable position. Sam was cursing under his breath, grunting like some sort of animal. Madeline gave one look to the demon pressing Sam to the floor, and the large man backed off, going to stand by the wall with two others.

"I hate to see you looking so down in the dumps, Sam," Madeline said after a sip of her drink. "You should be happy! You're finally going to carry out your destiny, and all thanks to us." She smiled wide, looking over Sam's heaving shoulders. The hunter really did seem pissed off. It was a shame – he would have made just as fine a toy as his big brother.

When Sam looked up at her, it was with as much hate as a human face could muster. There was blood splattered across his cheeks and forehead. Poor little lamb must have been right next to the girl when she was sacrificed. From the looks of all the blood and mushy chunks around the room, her death had been pretty damn messy.

"Where," Sam gasped, his words strained and labored, "where is my br-brother, you bitch?"

Madeline chuckled, shaking her head slowly. She never tired of hearing that word uttered by humans; they were so quick to judge, so willing to condemn her, when more often than not, they were responsible for the travesties surrounding them. Madeline was no evil thing. She was merely a natural force, moving the chess pieces around the board – no different than the God who was at the moment absent. Her composure did not change the longer she looked at Sam. Had he any demon blood in his system, Madeline admitted that she would be dead by now, which was why they had been very careful with this job. The Winchester's magic demon-killing letter opener was with the rest of their arsenal; meaning, in the trunk of their car at the bottom of a lake five miles from town. She was in no danger, and so she laughed.

"You Winchesters! You're so predictable. First thing you do when you stop coughing up blood long enough to speak is worry about Dean?" Madeline sat up in her chair, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. "He doesn't even care about you, Sam. Do you know what he said to me just now? When he woke up, the first thing he begged for was to be let go. He told me we could have you, Sam. He said he was done trying to trust you, trying to keep you from giving in to Lucifer. Dean's turned his back on you, Sam."

"You're lying."

It was the natural response. Madeline knew her words would have no effect other than to rattle Sammy's mental cage just a bit. Yes, the Winchesters were predictable. Despite their seemingly impenetrable bond, they were no more secure about the other than a couple of teenagers out on their first date. Madeline knew this quite well, thanks to Sam's brother – her spell to keep Dean submissive and motionless also had another effect; it allowed her to peek into his mind, literally using his weaknesses to pin him down. The things that Dean's mind offered up were more than enough to cripple both Winchesters for quite some time. Madeline knew all about their "relationship issues" and boy, she was almost ready to recommend the boys to a good couples' counselor.

But oh, Dean Winchester was in for quite the surprise later. Once the spell picked up speed… Madeline wanted to shiver just thinking about it. Dean would be up in his room, mentally writhing on the floor as all of his fears, nightmares, and uncertainties drove him to the brink of madness once the spell released them. Hours would seem like days, the air would taste like acid, Dean's very blood would seem to boil. Yes, Dean Winchester would beg her for death, and Madeline knew just the person to give it to him.

Madeline turned her attention back to Sam, smiling once again. "If you say so, Sam. Now then, if you'll excuse me, I have a ritual to prepare." She got to her feet, throwing aside her empty martini glass. From the pocket of her jacket she removed a long, twisted silver blade. There was instantaneous fear in Sam's eyes that sparked the moment the knife made itself known. He was like a dog that flinched to avoid its master's anger.

"I'll kill you," Sam said. It had become something of a chant, a mantra for him. Madeline didn't try to stop the utterances. He was powerless here. This was her game now.

"Yes, yes, I know," Madeline cooed like a mother would to her child when it's had a bad dream. Crouching, she lifted Sam's shirtsleeve all the way to his bicep. There were pale scars there, left from bullet wounds or stabs. Madeline felt a sense of power at contributing just another mark to the Sam Winchester Museum of Torture. As she petted the man's head, Madeline drove the tip of the knife into Sam's skin, drawing it downward into a large cut. He screamed, which was expected. Madeline only continued to smile. If Dean were still awake upstairs, he would be able to hear every moment of his brother's torment.

The cut on Sam's arm turned into not just a gash, but a symbol. Madeline began to carve into him, drawing out a pattern of antiquated signs and sigils. When she was done, the markings would start at his shoulder and continue all the way down to his elbow. But it would take time. It had to be done perfectly. The location of the markings was no matter, but their precision was key.

Sam's every muscle was taunt as it absorbed the pain. He started to shiver, which Madeline quickly stalled with a bit of demonic control. The only thing he could do now was threaten her, and he did so with gusto.

"The angels, they'll come," he said in bursts of breath that shook. "The angels will come and stop you."

Madeline only laughed. "Don't try to pull a bluff on me, boy. Even if they could reach you, they wouldn't even bother. I know the angels want this to happen." She looked at the man's eyes, seeing questions there even amongst the agony she herself was inflicting. For a moment she sat back on her heels and chuckled. "Oh, haven't we told you what we're going to do? No, of course we haven't – you've been unconscious all day! Well, get this. It's genius, really. The whole town has been cut off. No one on the outside even knows anything's happening here! They'll think we lost communication because of the storm, and in the meantime, I've got you all to myself, Sammy boy."

"What are you going to do?" The question was a demand, a forceful speech that surprised even Madeline.

"Oh well Sam, we're going to call Lucifer to us. That's what this whole ritual is for! You think Lucifer will have a meeting with just anyone? He's a busy guy, Sammy. This ritual will prove to him that we have you and your brother trapped. We will offer him your blood, and the blood of virgins, children, the whole nine yards. In just a few days, Lucifer will have his vessel. He will make you say yes, Sam."

Sam shook his head once. There was sweat on his forehead now, a result of the pain and the blood-loss. "No way. You can't kill all these people." His eyes flicked to the fireplace and he grimaced at the girl's simmering body parts. "Someone is going to stop you."

Madeline's only response was to drive the knife into him and continue the sigil, not pausing a moment even as Sam passed out from the pain.

~o~

The next time Dean woke, he was somewhere else.

The confusion was gone, as was his paralysis. The pink walls and frigid air had vanished. Dean stood up from the park bench he'd found himself sitting on. Above, the sky was clear and the sun felt warm on his face. For a moment, Dean forgot his earlier turmoil and allowed himself a deep breath of the fresh air.

"Dean," said a voice. Before he'd even turned around, Dean knew who he would find.

"Cas!" He couldn't stop himself from grabbing the angel by the shoulders and hugging him. The embrace was tightly returned. For a moment they stood there, not moving or speaking. In truth, Dean felt like crying, screaming, grabbing any demon he could find by the throat and spilling every last drop of its filthy blood.

When Castiel spoke next, his voice was calm and soft – the perfect sound in Dean's ears, because gave him more comfort than anything else ever could. "Dean, I don't have much time."

"I'm dreaming, aren't I?" He pulled away from the angel, but his hands remained at Castiel's shoulders, unable to let go of the comfort that he brought.

Castiel sighed, seeming sad about it, too. "You are in Pitchford, Illinois, yes?"

"Yeah. Nice town. You should really stop by some time," Dean said, heavy on the sarcasm. "By soon, I mean right-the-hell-now, Cas. We're in trouble, here." His grip on the angel's shoulders tightened, desperate for Castiel to understand that they wouldn't survive without his help.

Castiel's gaze was heavy and jaded. He out put one hand to Dean's face, comforting him with the soft touch. "I'm sorry, Dean, but this is a complex situation. These demons planned hard for this. It will not be easy for me to reach you."

"But you're going to, right?"

The angel averted his eyes. That sideways glance struck more fear into Dean than he thought he was able to contain. Castiel was doubting himself. The only thing Cas had ever doubted was his faith, and look where that had gotten him; Castiel was close to falling. Now, if Cas had lost faith in Dean's survival, well…

When Castiel returned his attention to Dean, it was to kiss him. That kiss instilled further fear in Dean that he would never truly see his angel again.

"What are they planning, Cas?" Dean said.

Castiel sighed heavily. He turned away from Dean and walked a few paces, only stopping to stare up at the sky. "They plan to complete a ritual that I have only ever heard of. It's called Laqueus. It binds two things together through bloodshed and sacrifice. I think the demons plan to complete this ritual and tie your brother to Lucifer himself. Or if not Lucifer, then to another demon – her name is Mammon. She is the demon of avarice, meaning she is especially greedy and hopes to secure a better seat for herself under Lucifer's favor." Castiel turned to Dean, looking at him as if expecting him to comment.

"Some demon bitch told me her name was Madeline. Maybe that's her?"

Castiel's gaze grew distant. "Yes, probably." The angel looked down at his shoes, sighing once again.

Dean just watched him, looking over every detail, just in case he didn't live through this one. He should have known before that some major shit was about to hit the fan. He should have known it three months ago, the first time he and Castiel kissed. Damn it, at the time, Dean didn't even stop to consider it – what that kiss would mean and what it would change. It had started as their usual comfortable, friendly sort of late-night chat while Sam was several feet away sleeping in his motel bed. Dean had woken up to Castiel's light shakes of his shoulder, and the two spoke in whispers for some time. Dean couldn't even remember what they'd talked about, but damn if it mattered. What mattered was the way that Cas looked in the soft Louisiana moonlight. Dean could still remember the nerves that nearly made him back away as he and Castiel drew closer, finally throwing pretense out the window. That first kiss had been slightly awkward, in retrospect, but the last three months had given them plenty of time to better their track record. Maybe in another month or so, they would have rounded third base.

Karma, of course, had caught up with them. Now, dammit, now they were being forced to save their own lives and the world. All Dean wanted to do was stay with Castiel forever in this dreamscape, but there was a subtle ache in his heart that reminded him his baby brother was in terrible danger.

Castiel seemed to know everything that Dean was thinking. Hell, the angel was probably thinking about the past three months with equal nostalgia. Gently, Cas touched Dean's face, stroking his thumbs over the hunter's cheekbones and jawline, moving down to his throat and collarbones. Dean got the unsettling sense that he was being memorized.

"I will save you," Cas promised.

"I'm not some chick, Cas," Dean said, faking bravado. "I can help too."

A flicker of a smile rose and died on the angel's face. It filled Dean with a sort of pride – pride because this beautiful, untouchable creature was in love with him. "I fully expect you to, Dean. I will come to Pitchford soon, but I will not be able to do anything for you today. Infiltrating the wards the demons have set up to keep angels away will take time."

"How much time?" Dean let his forehead drop forward until he was resting against Castiel.

"I can't tell you that. This demon, Madeline, she's a mind-reader. It's part of her power. She uses a person's wants and desires against them. If I tell you my plan, it will ruin our chances."

Dean gave a dry chuckle. "So why come see me at all? Isn't this a bit risky?"

Castiel chuckled as well. He laid a chaste kiss to Dean's lips, saying, "Yes, but I had to see you. I had to let you know that you haven't been deserted. I will save you, Dean." As Castiel spoke, his voice seemed to recede, like Dean was moving away from him. Even his vision was blurring, fading. Dean struggled to cling to Castiel, to get just one more kiss, one more touch, even if it was only a dream. He needed that hope, that assurance. But all he could grasp was the vapor-thin promise from Castiel's lips. I will save you.

…..

With such abruptness that Dean began to doubt the dream before he'd fully roused from it, he became aware of reality. His muscles hurt from being restrained, and that sour smell of demon magic was once again in his nose. There was blood dried to a thick crust on his face, stemmed from an unknown wound. At least he was alone. If he'd woken to find Madeline in his lap, he might have killed himself trying to kick her to the moon.

Dean let his head loll back so that it hit the wall. God, he'd eat slugs if it would get him a bottle of aspirin. Why did demons always have to go for head-shots, anyway?

For hours, Dean sat and stared at the pink walls around him. The demons had locked him up in the same room that he and Sam had rented out. Hell, their duffle bags were still lying on the bed. Dean could see one of Sam's flannel shirts sticking out amongst his other clothes.

That ritual – the Laqueus. It would bind Sam to Madeline, or so Cas had said. Three days. They had three days to escape. Goddamn it all. If the damn demons didn't kill him, the uncertainty sure as hell would. Dean despised this, this stagnancy. Sam was downstairs somewhere, probably receiving the torture of a lifetime at the hands of some greedy bitch and her lackeys.

Or maybe not Maybe Sam wants it He's evil you know He'd say yes to Lucifer anyway Sam is corrupted Sam is an abomination

Dean shook his head, stopping the thoughts he hadn't meant to think. It was as if someone was whispering in his ear. The voice in his head sounded like his mother's. No, no it wasn't his mom, it was John. Or maybe even Bobby.

And you you're just as bad Those things you're doing with that angel How sick are you You're corrupting an angel of the Lord You belong in hell You deserve to be dragged right back down to the pit How convenient that now Sam can just take you there himself

Dean didn't even realize that he'd gotten back control of his muscles. Suddenly he was just curled up with his arms thrown up around his head, trying to stop the whispers in his head. The voices came from all sides. He forgot all about Castiel's plan to save him. The more the voices said, the more Dean wanted to scream.

You are the evil one here Dean You You

You're the evil one

Corrupt

Evil

Sick

When he did start screaming, he didn't notice. The voices took shape, gained form, and crept close enough to jab him with their spindly little fingers.

Maybe he would die in this room after all.