A/N: Written as a prompt fill for wisepuma23 on Tumblr. I was unsure whether to post it here without its proper context, but it's been well received and the general feedback I've had is that it can stand on its own as a fic, if you'll excuse the lack of background for the case or detail of the events leading to this situation. There is more to the fic that I may post later, or elsewhere on the internet. PM me if you want to know more. This is basically putting Dean through Hell, except maybe worse, because this time Cas is suffering to save him too. Set around season 8-ish; timeline is deliberately vague. Will be 2-3 chapters in length. Rating will go up to M next chapter for gore and violence.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any recognisable characters.

1 - Captured

There's something pulling at Dean's arms. He isn't aware of much else, but he can feel the straining in his shoulder blades as something tugs at his wrists to pull them high above his head. Tension sears across his back and down his neck, the discomfort gradually building to a sharp burn in his muscles. Slowly, other sensations seep into his awareness to join the pain. There's a chill on his skin, telling of cold, dry air that whispers across his bare flesh as he realizes he's naked from the waist up. A deep sense of unease begins to settle heavy in his gut.

Groggy and disoriented, Dean groans. He tries to flex his wrists and ankles as consciousness steadily comes back to him, but he quickly realizes that movement isn't easy. There's something thick and heavy pinching tightly at his wrists and keeping them hoisted up, restricting his movement as a soft metallic jangle of chains meets his ears. He's barefoot, too; toes barely skimming the cold floor so that all of his weight is carried by his strained shoulders. No wonder it hurts so much.

With the unease inside him quickly turning to fear, Dean's eyes ease open. The only sight he's met with is dimness.

"Sam?" He's awake enough to try calling for help, but his mouth and throat are so dry that his first attempt is only a hoarse whisper. He tries again. "Sammy?"

The word rings out lonely and desolate in the darkness, its faint reverb telling him that there are walls out there somewhere. Wherever he is, it doesn't look like there's an easy way out. Dean swallows heavily, his breathing sounding horribly loud in the silence as he feels his heart start to pound. There's audible fear in his voice as he lets out one more desperate cry of, "Sam!"

It makes his blood run cold when he hears a soft, cruel chuckle sound in response. "Sam's the tall one, right?"

Ice rakes down Dean's spine as he hears the reply. The voice is low and raspy, with a light accent that Dean would place as Mexican or another kind of Latin American Spanish. It carries a heavy note of threat.

"Where is he? What have you done with him?" Dean's aggression just about manages to hide the tremor in his voice.

Again, there's a cold laugh. "Don't worry, Dean. He'll get his chance to be where you are eventually. Right now, it's yourself you ought to be concerned about."

That's wholly chilling. "Who are you?" Dean spits out the question, voice wavering just slightly as he fails to hide the extent of his fear for himself, and for Sam.

"I think you know."

"Let me guess, you're the guy who ripped all those people's hearts out? The one we've been hunting?"

"Correct." In the instant that the man says it, Dean sees the orange glow of a flame flicker in front of him, and then the red light of fire suddenly swells up to surround him on all sides. He flinches as he feels the heat of it, scared for a moment that it's going to reach him, but he soon figures out that it's contained. There are torches in the walls and floor, connected by oil-filled canals that the man has just ignited to illuminate the room around them.

Dean can at last make out the shape of the man in front of him as he takes in the surroundings of solid concrete walls. He doesn't know exactly where he is, but he's going to guess it's a basement of some kind. The taint of the red light feels horribly familiar, as does the bite of the chains hoisting him off the floor. He has to take a couple of deep breaths for a moment to remind himself that this isn't Hell. If he keeps calm he can still find a way out.

He twists his head and blinks, focusing on the figure advancing steadily towards him. It looks like a man around Dean's age, possibly a little older, with olive toned skin and coal-dark hair. Sinister shadows flicker across his face, cast by the menacingly sharp angles of his cheekbones and jaw, and that only emphasises the predatory look in his eyes. The pitch blackness of his irises is unmistakeably inhuman.

Dean swallows nervously as the man – monster – comes to a stop just a couple of feet in front of him. Its eyes rake hungrily across Dean's body and linger on his exposed chest, making the hunter's skin crawl. Dean clears his throat before speaking again. "Great. So does that make you one of those Aztec-god-worshipping nutjobs? 'cause I gotta say, the last one I met was hotter."

It raises its dark eyebrows at him, giving him a mocking look. "Really? That's the conclusion you've drawn? I'm disappointed." It leans in closer, and for a moment Dean thinks he sees its facial features change. The mostly human lines and features recede into the shadows creeping across its face, becoming replaced instead by sharp, twisted ridges of teeth and horn and bone. The image flickers like smoke, caught somewhere between reality and a darker, altogether more twisted plane of existence, and a heartbeat later it's gone. Dean glimpsed it for long enough to trigger a fresh wave of fear.

His breath catches and he can't help the way he recoils, causing the chains around his wrists to jangle. "Yeah, well, what can I say? You're not my type." He's trying to keep talking in a tone of nonchalance to disguise just how afraid he is, but his heart has started pounding madly and there's a sheen of sweat on his skin that isn't caused by the heat. He has a horrible feeling he knows what the thing is about to say.

The creature suddenly reaches up, pinching his chin tightly to tilt his face towards its own. Dean is forced to stare into its eyes as he hears the answer. "I'm not sacrificing to a god, boy. I am a god. You should be careful how you speak to me."

So he's been captured by a god. An Aztec one, it seems, considering his and Sam's earlier research on the case. The situation just got even more frightening, but Dean tries not to let it show. He gives the thing a sarcastic smirk. "Right, so you're sacrificing to yourself because you can't get anyone to do it for you. That's just kinda pathetic."

It glares at him, and for a moment he wonders if the thing is going to try to hurt him, but then it roughly lets go of his face and turns to walk away. Dean watches as it paces towards something a few paces in front of him: another large rectangular block of concrete protruding from the floor. Dean wonders what it's meant to be. A table? An altar? Whatever this place is, it looks like the god has tried to repurpose it for its own twisted designs.

"It's true, finding worshippers has become much harder than it was," the god admits as it comes to a stop beside the altar, surveying the items he has laid out upon it. His back is still turned to Dean. "Gone are the days when Huitzilopochtli was revered, and some would even go willingly to their deaths to be sacrificed to me." He reaches out to pick something up and then turns back round again, raising the item with a cruel glint in his each. Dean's stomach churns as he sees it's a knife - crudely shaped and made of flint, but unmistakeably a blade.

The god, Huitzilopochtli, begins to pace back towards him. "But times move on. I appreciate that," it continues to drawl, leering at him as it once again comes to stand just a few inches from his face. "I won't pretend that I don't miss being idolized, or that I'm not somewhat nostalgic for the ceremony of the sacrificial ritual, but I'm more than capable of taking what I want for myself."

He raises a hand and rests the flat of the blade against Dean's chest, before twisting and pressing just slightly to draw a thin trickle of blood. Dean gasps sharply, toes scrabbling on the floor as he tries to pull away, but the god seems as though he's enjoying taking his time. He doesn't try cutting deeper.

"So, what? You're gonna rip my heart out?" Dean asks nervously, mouth dry and voice trembling as much as the rest of his body. If he'd been aiming for sassy, it only comes out as scared.

Huitzilopochtli gives him a smirk. "A god has to eat."

"That's what you want heart sacrifices for?"

"Of course. No point in asking for sacrifices of things for which I have no use." Noticing the horrified look on Dean's face, Huitzilopochtli's expression twists even more cruelly. "Don't worry, I'll cook it first. Why do you think I started the fire?"

Dean's head starts to swim as he thinks he wants to pass out from fear. Alastair did this once in Hell. Tore my heart out and burned it in front of me… He tries not to think of that as he forces himself to control his breathing and focus on the fact that he's not in Hell and he can still find a way out.

The blade hasn't left his chest, and Dean feels a fresh stab of pain as the god, horrifically slowly, starts to slice deeper. He has to do something now.

"You really don't wanna do that," Dean suddenly blurts out in desperation, mind failing to come up with anything else fast enough. It's utterly lame, and even he doesn't expect the god will pay him any heed, but to his immense relief he feels the pressure of the blade suddenly halt. Shocked, he blinks, staring into the face of the god who has an amused eyebrow raised. It quickly becomes apparent that the god is only humoring him for its own amusement, but Dean thinks he can work with that.

"And why is that?" the god mocks sardonically, cocking its head at him.

Dean swallows. "Look, Hootzi…withi...poco… alright, I'm just gonna call you Witt, because your name is some real alphabet soup, but seriously, killing me would be a mistake. You do that, and my brother knows what you are and how to kill you."

'Witt' gives him a bored look. "Am I supposed to be impressed?"

"He will do it. He's killed gods before." Even as Dean continues to try playing for time, he can see that it isn't working. The god just shakes his head.

"Let me assure you, Dean, your brother's in no better position to do me any harm than you are. Now why don't you just be a good little human and learn your place?" He gives the knife another shove, and Dean cries out as he feels it carve past the skin and into muscle. Just inches below it, his heart's pounding frantically in terror as panic floods his brain. "This pathetic sack of meat you call a body was just made to be sacrificed to those like me," Huitzilopochtli snarls, and while Dean's scared his vision's about to black out he still glimpses something horrific in the god's black eyes.

"Cas!" The name leaves his lips in panic, the first thought flooding his fear stricken mind, and once again he's surprised to feel the blade's cutting halt.

He tries to focus his eyes enough to see the god giving him a look of curious amusement. "Alright, I'll admit, I like taking my time over this. I find it gives the meat a better flavor if I go nice and slow. So, you've intrigued me, and I'll ask: what's a Cas?"

Chest heaving, Dean blinks at him and tries to catch his breath. He can still feel the sharp bite of the blade buried in his skin, and there's a hot trickle of blood spilling down his torso. He wants to be sick. "Look…" he gasps out, trying to get a handle on the pain as he buys himself more time to formulate a plan. "You touch my heart, and I know an angel who'll be pissed at you."

"An angel?" Witt looks amused. "You do understand you're talking to a god, boy?"

"Yeah," Dean growls back, gritting his teeth as he gives a defiant glare. "A god who's followers are all long dead. No one believes in you anymore, Witt, but angels, on the other hand? There's plenty who still believe in them. You really wanna try taking one on?"

The god's look of sadistic amusement quickly fades to one of anger. Dean's insolence has struck a nerve. "Take a look around you," he spits, provoking another agonized cry as he gives a push on the blade. "I've transformed this place into a temple to me. Your Judeo-Christian mythology has no place here. No angel can stop me. If I want your heart, I'll take it."

He's leaned in closer to Dean's face, lips pulling back from his teeth in a vicious snarl. His other hand rises to press against Dean's chest, fingers sliding either side of the thick blade buried in the hunter's skin and pushing down hard. It's all Dean can do not to scream in pain.

"Can you feel how fast it's beating?" Huitzilopochtli taunts him softly. "Aren't you just so scared? Let's not rush this, Dean. I want to feel your heart pounding when I rip it out."

Dean whimpers, feeling the blade twist and slice deeper. Please, let him be wrong… Cas, I need your help… You're the only chance I've got…

Some of the prayer actually manages to come out in between his cries of pain, but Dean doesn't know if Cas can hear him or if the angel even has the power to do anything here. The knife is pushing deeper, flint biting into the tissues to make a channel to his heart, and Dean cries out as he feels it scrape across his ribs. His heart's thundering in his ears, blood pounding against his skull and amplifying the pain with each anvil-heavy beat. He thinks he's just about on the brink of passing out from sheer terror and agony when something cuts through the haze of darkness and glowing orange surrounding him, and a brilliant white light floods his slowly fading vision.