A/N: I hope you guys aren't afraid of OCs… they're necessary, but will not interfere with the rest of the canon characters too much. Kinda nervous about putting them in, I'll admit.
~o~
Tethered
Chapter Four: Mirage of Hope
Pitchford was a well-adjusted town, meaning that it knew full well how out of the way it really was but still managed a quaint, comfortable atmosphere. Its citizens were on the whole born and raised in Pitchford, the majority seeing no reason to leave. The asphalt road running down the main street was only a few years old, and it somehow made even the oldest of Pitchford's shops look newer, better.
Yet, in little less than three days, the town that had once approached picturesque had been flipped, beaten, and buried. Rain, wind, and fear had washed away all that was good, leaving behind the hallowed skeleton of a town now being controlled by something wicked – like a foreign master manipulating a puppet.
At the outskirts of town, the largest men in Pitchford sat on top of their trucks, watching for someone, for something. They held guns, but with an air that the weapons were a precautionary after-thought. What they hunted, what they guarded against, wouldn't be deterred by any human weapon. With their coal black eyes these men waited, never blinking, never moving, never speaking.
The sun was rising on the third day of Pitchford's possession. The storm that had wracked the town without pause had slowed to a drizzle, its wind stalling to the lightest of bitter breezes. In the center of the main road, at the very edge of town in sight of the sign-marked border, a pair of sentinels was blocking the only way into town. One of the men adjusted his position slightly, hitching his left leg higher. He sat on top of the truck cabin, his foot resting on the cavity of the rolled-down window. Another man, another demon, sat in the truck bed, running his hand over his gun like he craved something to shoot at.
Just as the sun was peaking over distant trees, both men sat upright. They sniffed the air, once, twice. The man in the truck bed stood, facing his companion. The man on the roof nodded, sending the other away; he disappeared without a word, as if he melted into the air itself. Now alone, the larger of the two jumped down from his perch and walked around the back of the truck, standing near the back bumper and facing the distant trees. That smell, it was stronger now. It was something musky, subtle yet strong enough to fill his senses.
The next guard post was half a mile away. Two demons were stationed at this interval around the entire border of Pitchford. The stationing of guards was only an after-thought – the real protection came from the enormous sigil drawn by Mammon herself around the entire town. Not an angel in existence (excluding maybe Michael himself) could cross that border without being fried.
The demon approached the inside border of the ward. It glowed hazy and red and emanated a power, a force that could be felt deep inside. Behind this wall the demon stood, a hand at his gun and his senses perked for any sign of an intruder. With the end of the Laqueus ritual so close at hand, he knew that the chance of an attack was great – he also knew what would happen if Mammon decided to blame him for any disturbance at the perimeter.
"I can smell you, lovely! No use tryin' ta hide from me," the demon called out into the rising dawn. The scent was growing stronger, closer. It had shifted slightly, giving evidence of several intruders as opposed to one. "Just come on out and we'll have a chat."
The road into town had been blocked in more ways than one. The off-ramp from the freeway was riddled in detour signs, advertising danger along the road toward Pitchford. For extra security, a mudslide had been fabricated that blocked the road completely. All travelers coming off the freeway would be directed to the next town over. The possibility that this new arrival was human – a normal human, anyway – was next to none. The only beings who would dare approach Pitchford were either hunters or angels with a death wish.
The demon sniffed the air again. There were definitely two humans out there. He swung his head to the left…no, getting colder. To the right…yeah, there it was. With a toothy grin, the demon raised his shotgun in the direction of the scent.
"Come out now, and I promise not to hurt ye'," the demon said in a low rumble. He took aim. In the weak orange light, he could just make out a figure in the distance, standing between the trees. But dammit, even then the figure was hard to see. If not for the wind that blew the stranger's scent straight toward him, it was possible they would have gone completely unnoticed. The demon chuckled. "Promise not to hurt you," he said again. Humans were so—
"What if I hurt you first?"
Before the demon could turn, it was too late. Something was jammed into his side, just beneath the ribs. He let out a scream, dropping his weapon. With several flickering, fiery flashes of light, the demon fell dead. His killer bent down to remove the knife from his back, wiping the blood on her jeans.
"That was so stupid, Gwen. Dammit, I told you we'd only go on this suicide mission if y'promised not t'get yourself killed." A man trotted up to the woman kneeling beside the body. He was tall, well-built, and his voice carried a distinctly southern flavor. His brow was knit sternly as he regarded the woman.
Gwen got to her feet, examining the knife as if her companion weren't even there. "Well hot damn, and here I thought this thing wouldn't work. Who knew a little pig sticker could kill a demon, huh?" She looked up at the man, smiling. When she was only met with a glare, she rolled her eyes. "Christ, Ray, just relax, would yah?"
Ray shook his head. His eyes didn't rest on one thing for long, as if he were wary that any number of nightmares would leap out at then from the shadows. "Where the hell is that angel? He said there'd be two demons here."
"The other demon is dead," said a sudden voice from behind the two hunters. "As are the rest of the guards around the perimeter. All sixteen of them."
Gwen merely cocked an eyebrow at the man, whilst Ray looked utterly startled by Castiel's appearance.
"So how many're left in town?" said the woman. She returned the demon-killing knife to a holster at her thigh.
Castiel wasn't looking at her. He was staring past the two as if transfixed by something. All the hunters could find to be looked at was the gloomy form of Pitchford's outermost buildings several yards away. The angel raised a hand, reaching out like he was going to touch something, but there was nothing there but early-morning fog.
"What's up, chief?" Ray said.
Castiel dropped his hand and cocked his head, barely looking at the two over his shoulder. "The ward set up by Mammon," he said, "is even stronger than I suspected. It may take more energy than I had accounted for."
Something in his voice was so somber that Gwen wanted to sigh – there had to be more to this mission than Bobby had let on. Truthfully, she'd been almost apprehensive to take it on, but when Bobby told her over the phone that the Winchesters were involved, well, she couldn't turn it down. And because she'd decided to go along, Ray came too; they'd never hunted without each other, and to be honest she would have regretted his absence. They were a team, which may have been why she felt so strongly to save the Winchesters; they were a team, too.
Gwen stepped closer to the angel, putting a hand to his shoulder. Touching a soldier of Heaven sort of scared her, sure, but right now the poor guy looked like less of a warrior and more of a desperate…something – her mind offered the word 'lover' to describe him, but the thought was ludicrous.
"Hey," she said, "don't worry. Rufus and his team are with us, right? They'll be goin' in with us, so while you get your strength back, we'll take out as many demons as we can. You've just gotta worry about gettin' your friends out."
To her surprise, Castiel gave a soft chuckle. "For all of your sakes, I pray it's that simple." He looked past Gwen, giving Ray a small nod. The man stepped forward and moved Gwen back with a hand at her hip. "Stay back until I get the barrier down. I don't know how much good your cloaking amulets will do against so many demons at once, but stay together and you might survive." He turned away once again and bowed his head.
Ray and Gwen ran behind the nearest tree. They had been told to stay hidden in case the demons came out swinging once the wards were (hopefully) stripped. All along the border, the other hunters should have been taking cover as well.
As they crouched in the dirt, Ray and Gwen meticulously checked their gear, ammo, and the amulets around their neck. Bobby had managed to whip up a little something that would keep the demons from sensing them so easily – judging by their first easy kill of the day, the spell worked, but for how long they couldn't tell. For the time being they took comfort in the anti-possession charms at their wrists.
Castiel began to mutter under his breath, whispering some language that didn't belong on Earth. His voice carried to them on the wind, and without realizing it, both Gwen and Ray shivered with a mortal fear they could not place.
~o~
Dean jolted awake with the taste of bad eggs and sour milk in his mouth. He pushed himself into a sitting position, almost too exhausted to open his eyes. The first thing he realized was that the scent of demon magic was gone – the only sign that he was under Madeline's spell, which had until that point been present like a cloud in the room. He slumped against the wall, not bothering to wonder why he'd fallen asleep on the floor when there was a bed a mere three feet away; maybe it had something to do with the hallucinated snakes he'd seen slithering on the mattress just before losing consciousness.
"Good morning, sunshine," said a terribly familiar voice. Madeline was sitting in the rocking chair in the opposite corner of the room, filing her nails.
"Go to Hell," Dean replied, as he did every time Madeline showed her face.
She dropped her hands into her lap, frowning with enough exaggeration to make Dean sick. "Oh, and here I was hoping we could start today off better than that. You've made me so happy, Dean! My ritual is coming along perfectly! And here I thought you would try to ruin it for me." She laughed in a girlish trill, resting her chin on the palm of her left hand. "Just think, we sit on the edge of true destiny, and all you can do is sit there on the floor, crusted in your own blood." She giggled again and stood.
Dean made a dry sound under his breath that under any other context would have been a chuckle. Shaking as he did so, he dragged himself to the edge of the bed and used it to pull himself to his feet. His head spun and his heart was exploding in his ears, but he was determined to meet Madeline's eye, rather than lie huddled beneath it.
"Y'know," he said, voice scratchy and rough, "you demons – I've got a billion reasons to hate you, but the one topping the charts at the moment is, God dammit, you just love the sound of your own voice, don't cha?" He lifted his head to stare hard at Madeline, feeling the dried blood on the back of his neck and his forehead crack. He'd lost count of his injuries long ago, but it was something of a miracle that he hadn't bled out yet.
Madeline regarded Dean as if he were a cat that had learned to tap-dance. "Oh Dean, just wait until the final sacrifice. You'll love it," she said scathingly. "Don't worry, I'll make sure you get a front row seat, seeing as it will be your brother who does the deed."
All of Dean's reserve and control nearly snapped. He almost lost his hold on the bed, which was the only thing keeping him upright. "Sam won't kill anyone, you delusional bitch."
She laughed again. "Me? Delusional? Oh, how adorable. You have no idea what goes on in Sammy's head, do you?"
"Maybe not, but I'm sure you've done enough damage for the both of us."
Madeline took several steps closer to him, looking him up and down with languid sweeps of her borrowed green eyes. She chuckled softly, running one finger down Dean's chest. "I know you two crazy kids have had quite the tragic life and all, but wow, Dean, if you only knew." She looked up at him, meeting his hard glare with a bastardization of bedroom eyes.
"What are you talking about?"
Again, she chuckled. Her voice had slipped into a whisper, like she was speaking in Dean's ear with the voice of a lover. "Sam watches you, Dean. He knows everything about you – all of the dirty little secrets you've been keeping, even if you've managed to hide them from me."
Secrets? This bitch had been deeper into his subconscious than he had. Unless…had Castiel managed to lock certain things away? The dreams over the past two days, for sure, had remained hidden, but what other secret was there that Madeline would find so interesting? If she wasn't giddy over the discovery of Castiel's escape plan, then what?
"I don't know what you're—"
Madeline's hand closed around his throat, silencing him immediately. "Oh yes you do, Dean. Remember all the sick little games you've been playing with that angel pal of yours? Sam's known about it all along, and guess what? Out of all the buttons I've pushed, that one's my favorite." Her lips curled into a smile. All at once, she released him and turned toward the door.
Dean finally lost his hold on the bed and slumped to the floor, groaning at the weakness in his muscles.
"See you tonight, lover boy," Madeline cooed from the doorway. "If Sam hasn't lost his last marble yet, I'll be sure to give him your best." She lifted her hand as if to wave over her shoulder, but instead her fingers twirled in the air. A kind of electricity filled the room, bringing with it the stench of demon magic. The door closed and sealed the sickness inside.
A feeling of otherworldly anxiety settled back onto Dean's shoulders. His skin began to itch, twitch, and crawl. Voices crept from the corners of the room, from the cracks of his subconscious, and they told him all the things he'd come to believe.
He was going to die here. Sam was going to die. Cas would die trying to save them. The world would then follow them into the grave.
But the rebellion… Cas had mentioned a rebellion that Dean himself would lead – fighting back against Madeline's control. If he could just force his mind to realize that he was strong enough. There was a bathroom adjoining his so-called cell…he could bless some water and—
No, it was better to die here. Madeline was right. His life was messed up, wasted, tragic… To die would be a relief. He wouldn't have to worry about Sam anymore, wouldn't have to live with the knowledge that everything he had was barely even his.
Somehow he'd managed to pull himself up into the bed, where he lay limp and sprawled across the mattress. The smell of Madeline's spell had faded to the background of his mind, lingering in the space of familiarity to where he barely noticed it anymore. But the voices, the flashing images, they remained stronger than ever. Hallucinations began, spiraling around him past the point of any reality. As he lay on the bed, Dean clawed at his skin, scratching his temple as if he could pick the nightmares out. Old wounds reopened, blood flowing until his head spun. But he couldn't stop the scratching, the clawing, the desperate hope that nightmares would stop if only he were in enough pain. Castiel had been wrong. He was too weak to fight Madeline – too cowardly selfish. Maybe the reason he couldn't fight it was because deep down, he knew he was better off dead.
"Just kill me already," Dean choked out. "Quite making me wait around for it. Just do it."
Vaguely, he heard the subtle sound of something moving. This wasn't uncommon; his nightmares often chose to take physical form to better torture him. Dean closed his eyes and braced himself for the fresh round of torment.
Some weight settled above him. It positioned itself slowly with careful precision. Dean's first fear was that some reincarnation of Alastair had come calling – that damn demon always did like to toy with him.
"Open your eyes, Dean," said a voice. But it wasn't biting sadism that the voice carried. It was familiar. Familiar enough to make Dean follow its orders.
Looking down at him was the most welcome face Dean could fathom. Nothing could compare to the wave of comfort found in those blue eyes, and for the first time in three days, Dean smiled.
"Castiel."
The man above him seemed to struggle with himself, only after a moment allowing a smile to spread over his face as well. The expression made his eyes glow brighter. "I told you I would be coming for you," he said, his voice a hush. One hand went to the side of Dean's face, warily avoiding the abrasions there. "Just in time, too," he added.
Dean leaned into the touch, not caring about the sting from his wounds when the raw flesh met Castiel's skin. The events of the last three days seemed to melt – if not then ebb into a controllable ball. His angel had come, and finally he was safe. Even the smell of demon magic had faded away, leaving behind a clarity in Dean's head that he'd forgotten once existed.
"Thank you," Dean said on a sigh. He closed his eyes for a moment, but quickly opened them again to absorb Castiel's face. His angel was solid, real. Finally, he could touch Castiel outside the walls of a dream.
Castiel made a sound like a chuckle. "Don't thank me yet. There is still work to do." His smile faded a bit, his eyes glancing away from Dean's face.
Against the groan of his weak muscles, Dean sat up. Castiel shifted to sit beside him, letting the hunter rest against him. "What are you talkin' about?" Dean said. "Isn't Madeline dead? I mean, you're here, aren't you?"
Castiel sighed. "This is as far as I could go. I still need your help." He looked down at his own hand as it clasped around Dean's. "The ritual hasn't been stopped, and Sam is still under the demon's control."
"What! Cas, why didn't you— You coulda told Sam to fight her, too! Haven't you told him we're busting out?" He barely remembered to keep his voice low, now that he knew they weren't out of the woods just yet.
Castiel raised a hand, looking quickly up at Dean with a worried expression. He glanced at the door before saying, "It doesn't matter what I could have done. The point is that I didn't, and the longer we sit here, the closer we become to the final sacrifice."
There was a heavy weight in Dean's chest as he sighed. He was trying to keep himself calm. Getting too worked up now would just end in him passing out. Damn, he'd kill for a cheeseburger.
"Alright," Dean said finally, "so what do we do? They make one sacrifice every three hours, starting at three pm." He put a hand to his forehead, for a moment surprised at all the blood there. When – no, why – had he done that? Castiel wordlessly handed him a towel from the bathroom, but Dean hadn't even noticed him go to get it.
"How do you know that for sure?" Cas said.
Dean gave a wry laugh, the sound coming out desperate and sad. "The screaming. I can hear it from up here. Usually, Madeline lifts her hold just long enough for me to listen in."
Castiel seemed to wince slightly, but Dean couldn't tell for sure. "By the end of the night, she will be dead. I'll make sure of that."
Dean looked up at the angel. His mind may have been somehow tearing from Madeline's spell (Castiel had undoubtedly seen to that), but there was still some part of him that didn't seem to be working quite right. He still didn't feel completely whole, like something was still chained up and hidden away. For now, though, he would focus on cleaning away some of the blood on his face. It hadn't bothered him until then.
"How are we gonna save the other sacrifices, then?" Dean said after some time.
"What?"
Dean fixed Cas with a focused look. "We have to get them out, Cas. They're innocent people!"
For a moment, Castiel said nothing. He was looking at Dean carefully, his face blank. When he opened his mouth, there was a smile tugging at the corner of it. "Even so close to death, you never stop being a Winchester. What will it take to make you stop wanting to risk yourself for strangers?"
Dean felt himself smirk. The response was so effortless in Castiel's presence. "Nothin' known to man or angel, I'm afraid." He chuckled. "You have a plan right?" His tone grew serious again. The threat of more blood on his hands was terrible now that he knew it could be avoided. He didn't think he could handle the screams again. As it were, he'd only barely survived them.
Castiel nodded once. "I always do, Dean."
There was the sudden sound of footsteps behind the door, and both men turned toward it. Dean's heart raced instinctually, and he almost moved to stand – he wanted to fight.
Castiel put a hand to the hunter's shoulder, keeping him on the bed. "No, Dean," he whispered. "You can't let them know I've been here. Keep behaving as normal. If they suspect us, we'll never make it. Do you understand?"
Dean had no choice but to nod, although every part of him wanted to go through that door and fight whatever demon he found behind it.
"Good. I will return when the time is right," Castiel said somberly. He made to stand, but this time it was Dean who stopped him.
"Cas," Dean said, but couldn't put into words what he was feeling. He found himself doing nothing but stare at the angel, who had no trouble staring right back at him.
Swiftly, Castiel leaned down and pressed his lips against Dean's. The warmth and security of the act made Dean wonder why he hadn't kissed Cas the moment he saw him. In an instant, all the tender exchanges that had come to pass flashed before Dean's eyes. He longed to open his eyes and find them back in the motel room where they'd shared their first kiss, or the back seat of the Impala where they'd taken their emotions further. Why hadn't he known back then that all his happiness was an illusion? If he'd been aware of what was to come, he would have never let Castiel out of his arms.
More footsteps sounded just beyond the door. Castiel pulled out of the kiss before Dean could stop him.
"I will return," Castiel said, and was gone.
Even as the door opened and a demon looked inside the room to check on the prisoner, Dean remained staring at the empty space where Castiel's eyes once were.
