Dean was chained; his wrists securely fasted above his head, his shoulders begging for mercy, his toes barely scraping the rough floor beneath him. He'd called for Sam until his throat ached, but there had been no answer. Either his brother was back in the motel, safe, or he was chained up nearby but unable to respond…or he was dead. A fresh wave of fury tinged with fear overwhelmed Dean and he fought his bonds, struggling to free himself. He was rewarded only with fresh blood running down his bare arms and the sound of chains clinking above him. He tried to look around, but it was so dark that he could only make out darker shadows. He knew that the room was relatively large and mostly empty, the echoes of his voice had told him that much. He still hadn't seen his captors.
He remembered finishing up a hunt with Sam, a wendigo, before collapsing into their beds at the filthy motel. After that was just a confused memory of waking up with black shadows hovering over him, blinding pain, smoke, and Sammy's voice crying out his name. If those bastards had hurt his brother- "Sammy!" Dean's voice croaked, neither as strong or as loud as it had before. Dean hung limp, defeated. Sammy was either elsewhere or dead, and couldn't help his brother now.
The sound of soft footsteps echoed around him and his head snapped up, eyes trying desperately to focus. A warm glow surrounded him, lighting the room. Several torches had been simultaneously lit. The room they illuminated proved to be a large cavern. The walls were carved rock, stalactites hung from a ceiling high above, the tips just touching the glow from the torches. Close to the walls, stalagmites sprouted up, reaching for their cousins. Metal brackets mounted to the walls held the torches. A second set of chains were fixed to one wall. A skeleton hung from them, suspended by its arms in the same way as Dean.
At the farthest reach of the torches' light Dean could just make out a shadowed figure. The creature looked vaguely human, but then most creatures did. It stayed just on the edge of shadow, just out of sight. A shrill whistle echoed around the cavern.
The soft pad of paws on stone reached Deans ears before he saw the footprints. Large, wolf-like prints appearing from nowhere, an invisible beast was padding closer to Dean from the darkness near the creature. The footprints stopped moving closer and a low growl emanated from the spot, a growl Dean recognized, a growl that turned his insides to jelly and sent shivers into his very soul. A hellhound stood before Dean, waiting, menacing growl slowly increasing in volume to fill the chamber and reverberate off the stone walls of his prison.
The creature in the shadows whistled again, shrill and piercing, and the hellhound pounced. It landed on Dean and sent them both swinging from the chain. He felt something give in his right shoulder, felt the monster's claws rip into his belly, and he cried out in agony. "Sammy!" he cried out. "Cas!" but no one answered his screams.
Sam pulled the motel door shut behind him and scanned the parking lot. His brother's black Impala shined in the afternoon sun in front of him. He closed his eyes. "Cas," he whispered, "if you've got your ears on, Dean's in trouble. I could really use your help." He opened one eye and looked around expectantly. When nothing happened he closed his eyes again. "I mean it man, I need you right now. Dean needs you. Please." Nothing.
With a heavy sigh, Sam walked to the Impala and popped the trunk, tossing both bags and the laptop inside. He went back to the hotel room, searching for some clue as to what had taken his brother. He was starting to remember the night's events, though it was all still a bit fuzzy. They had stopped here for their latest hunt, a windigo, and decided to crash one more night before heading home to the bunker. The hunt had been long, and hard, trekking through the woods and into a cave to hunt the creature down before burning the bastard. They were both so beat that they'd collapsed onto the stained beds without even showering.
He stepped back into the motel room and looked around once more. A sharp smell stung his nostrils and he gasped and turned to the windowsill. Had they salted the doors last night? He couldn't remember, but bending to look at the sills he saw no trace of salt. The telltale yellow powder coating the sill told Sam all he needed. How could he have been so stupid.
He remembered now, they'd collapsed exhausted to the beds, each too tired to even take precautions, too used to the bunker and its safety. In the dead of night a noise had woken him and he'd opened his eyes to see a dark shadow looming over his bed. He'd cried out Dean's name and been thrown to the floor. Dean had screamed. He'd tried to fight, but been picked up by an invisible force and slammed into the ceiling and then the floor, where he'd blacked out.
He punched the wall between the window and door, leaving behind a hole in the drywall and scrapes on his knuckles. Demons had Dean. There was only one person that could help him if Cas refused to answer. A person he swore he'd never call on. His eyes fell on the bed again, the bed covered in his brother's blood. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed the hated number, 666.