A/N: This series is going to be a bit different from other stories I've posted here thus far. Writing sex is fun and all, but it does get a tad redundant. So here you are: the best of both worlds! I'm going to write this fic a bit truer to the canon style of events on the show, meaning there'll be a plot. If you really don't want plot, sorry. Me, personally, I prefer plot stories that incorporate the romance (yes, there will be slash in this, folks!) Hopefully you enjoy reading it – I've enjoyed writing it! Please let me know what you think with a review! It would really help me out :]

-Dani

~o~

Tethered

Chapter One: Bad Luck or No Luck at All

They hadn't intended on stopping in Pitchford Township on their way through Illinois, but the gas tank had other plans. The Impala's gas meter was tipped dangerously to the negative when Dean glanced down at it. It was nearly midnight, and in the back of Dean's conscience he knew he should find somewhere to stop for the night. He was tired (closer to cranky, really), and Sam hadn't been anywhere close to consciousness since they stopped for dinner in Mayberry several hours back.

"Residents in the following areas should be advised, violent thunderstorms are headed toward: Shelby, Greenfield, Pitchford, and Berkley. Repeat: all residents in the area should take cover as soon—"

Dean flicked off the radio with one jerk of his wrist. The clouds had been ominous since they last filled up for gas, and now the sky was downright miserable. Although it was supposed to be a full moon, Dean needed every watt of light that the Impala's headlamps could provide. The air had that scent to it, too; that fresh, wet smell that came about whenever a big summer storm was close.

Up ahead was a road sign, reading, "Pitchford Township: next exit." Just as Dean drove past it, the first burst of lightening could be heard off in the distance. Subconsciously, Dean ticked off the seconds before the thunder clap. He barely made it to two before the car practically shook with the sound.

Sam jerked awake. No one had ever accused the kid of being a deep sleeper. He made soft grunting noises as he tried to untangle his long limbs from the contorted position he'd wrenched himself into. The Impala was really no place for a guy of Sam's size to be catching his beauty sleep.

"Wake up, dude," Dean said. "We're gonna stop. Need gas, anyway." He pulled the car onto the off-ramp of the highway, headed toward a cluster of lights in the distance.

Pitchford was a small town like all the others. The buildings they passed were fairly well-kept, and hell, the roads were paved so Dean really saw nothing to complain about. The local general store was down-home country style, as were the library, town hall, and whatever residences they could see. Another quaint, friggin' town.

Sam yawned, rubbing his eye gently with a balled fist. "I don't think we're gonna find a motel here, Dean."

Well, they weren't going to find much of anything, really, seeing as the rain chose that moment to begin throwing itself downward. The Impala's wipers almost couldn't respond fast enough to the gallons of water being hurled at them. Another clap of thunder rocked the air.

Dean chuckled in the back of his throat. "Ain't that a B-and-B up ahead?"

Just at the end of the main street, yes, was a two-story bed and breakfast. The house was white, its shutters a pastel purple and illuminated by one of Pitchford's few streetlamps. Across the street were a small park and a large oak tree from which a tire swing was hung. Dean pulled the car to a stop at the side of the road, parking just in front of the inn. Despite the torrential winds that had flared up, a sign that declared the inn to have vacancies hung stead-fast to the side of the building.

"I dunno, Dean," Sam said warily. "This isn't really…" he trailed off, shrugging.

Nice places made the Winchesters nervous on principle. Joints like this – that were more likely to house apple pie families and retirees – weren't exactly their scene, and they were willing to admit it. They could play nice with the locals all they wanted; folks still gave them cautious stares no matter what they did. It was like they were a different breed.

Dean sighed, one hand going up to rub his cheek absently. He needed a shave and a warm bed, anything to get out of the damn car and away from all this Goddamn rain.

"Trust me, Sammy," Dean said. "It's only for a night, alright? No one's gonna bite you. Promise," he added, chuckling. He reached into the glove compartment for one of their bogus credit cards. Flipping up the collar of his jacket, he took the keys from the ignition and led the way into the downpour. The tell-tale open and close of the passenger side door assured Dean that his brother was close behind him.

Initially, upon finding that the inn was warm, dry, and unlocked, Dean was relieved. Anything, he thought, was better than sleeping another night at the side of the road curled up next to the steering wheel. He shook water droplets from his short hair, surprised at being so drenched from a mere five seconds outside.

When Dean actually turned his attentions to their surroundings, however, his feelings of relief turned quickly to mild disgust.

"Dean," came Sam's voice from behind him, "this place is pink."

They were standing in the pinkest room in all creation. It was only a mudroom – a foyer for guests to leave their umbrellas in the umbrella stand or look at fliers on the short pink table at one end of the small hallway. The wallpaper was a rosy floral pattern, the moldings were pink, even the damn carpet. The Winchesters exchanged their skeptical glances, but Dean was determined to get himself into a real bed – no matter how fuchsia, salmon, or magenta that bed was.

Dean continued down the entryway and came into the main area. There was a desk directly ahead of him, and a light pink living room set was to his left in front of a large fireplace. And yes, all of the décor followed the same color scheme as the foyer.

They approached the desk. It was empty of any employee, but at the right side of the chest-level countertop was a small gold bell. Dean gave it an experimental tap, sounding a dainty twinkling sound from its metal form.

Sam sighed, shaking his head. "No one's gonna be—"

Before Sam could doubt the presence of any conscious person, a door behind the desk gave a small scuffling sound, as if someone was moving behind it. A moment later, the door opened to reveal a pot-bellied man pulling a pastel purple rob over his pajamas.

"Uh, hi," Dean said to the man. "Sorry to pull you outta bed."

The man was almost totally bald, save for the twin streaks of gray hair just above his ears that stretched around to the back of his head. He had an immense silvery mustache, underneath which he was smiling at the two men.

"Don't worry, don't worry," the man said, waving a hand. "Wasn't asleep, no, no." He fixed a pair of glasses onto his large nose and sat down at the desk. After shuffling some papers, he looked back up at Dean. "You'll be needing a room then, huh? This storm – don't know how anyone could even sleep through it."

Dean stared at the strange man for a moment. Every candy bar had its nuts, he supposed, but this old geezer who lived in a pink house was the grand prize weirdo.

"Yeah, it's wild, isn't it?" Sam stepped in, realizing Dean's muted surprise. "But yes, please, we'd like a room."

"Just one?" the man said, raising one scraggly eyebrow.

"Uh, yeah," Sam said. "One room with two beds, if you've got it."

"Sorry," the man replied. He seemed to look closer at the two men. "All we got's left is king-sized beds."

"That's fine," Dean said. He quickly pulled out his wallet. "You take credit?"

~o~

Before leaving them to their own devices, the man – who introduced himself to be Tom, the Pink Place's owner – took a moment to warn them about how bad the thunderstorms usually got this time of year. "Wouldn't be surprised if we lose power," Tom said gravely. "Might even lose the phones, too. That happened last year."

Sam assured Tom that they had cell phones, just in case, but he thanked him for his concern. Both the Winchesters were glad to see Tom leave.

"Dude looks at us like we're nuts cause we're gonna share a bed and he's the one runnin' an inn called 'the Pink Place'?" Dean peeled off his wet t-shirt and jeans, tossing them into a pile below the window. He fell into bed with a scoff at Tom's expense.

Sam chuckled, back turned to his brother as he pulled off his own clothes. "Yeah, next time I pick where we stay." He looked over his shoulder at Dean, frowning. "Come on, Dean, put on some clothes, at least! I didn't bring the duffle bags in from the car for nothin'."

Dean glanced at his brother. Yep, Sammy was making his bitch-face again. The nagging only got worse when Sam was tired. Begrudgingly, Dean pulled himself out of bed and forced himself to put on a t-shirt. No way was he wearing pants. Hell, he'd probably be sleeping naked if he weren't sleeping next to his brother. Sam had issues with nakedness – must have been an annoying-kid-brother thing.

When they were both lying under the covers (and trying to ignore just how pink their room was), Sam stirred Dean from his half-sleep with a jab to his brother's ribs.

"Christ, Sammy, wuzzit?" Dean grumbled. He managed to open his eyes, finding that Sam seemed worried about something.

Sam shrugged slightly. "Dunno. Just had this weird feeling. Don't you feel it too?"

"Feel what? Other than how friggin' cold your feet are."

Sam remained straight-faced. "No, I mean, don't you feel like something's not right?"

Dean recognized that look on Sam's face, even if he wasn't picking up on any bad vibes. Sam wasn't being stupid or worrisome; he was genuinely troubled. Working beside his brother had taught Dean that sometimes, Sam knew what he was talking about. Blame it on the demon blood or whatever else, but the kid knew a bad situation when he saw one.

"Tell you what," Dean said, sighing. "I'll give Cas a call in the morning and tell him to come. He'll be able to tell you for sure if there's any bad mojo around here."

Sam looked up at the ceiling, just staring blankly at it for a few moments. "You promise you'll call?"

"Yeah, man, in the morning." Dean was already closing his eyes, rolling over and ready for sleep. He'd call on the angel later, but for now, all he wanted was a night's rest. In moments, he was asleep. Little did he know, his brother wouldn't get any sleep that night.

~o~

If it weren't for bad luck, Sam knew that they wouldn't have any luck at all. That's what he told himself when he stood on the front porch of the pink-inn-from-Hell, watching a team of volunteer firemen try to lift a fifteen-foot tree from the remains of the Impala.

Storms in Pitchford were bad. That's what Tom had said only last night. And what happened? A damn tree fell over and landed on the car. The damage done wasn't anything unfixable. Really, it wasn't like the time they'd been hit by the semi-truck or anything. But from the way Dean was carrying on, you'd think someone had just stabbed his child in the gut with a machete. Okay, maybe that was a bit dramatic. Then again, Sam didn't know what else to compare his brother's current level of rage to.

Down on the lawn, Dean was shouting in the faces of several policemen, Tom the inn-keeper, and the local lawyer of Pitchford township. It was probably for the best that Dean was causing a scene; the more he pissed people off, the less likely they'd be to inspect the car, therefore avoiding the awkward discovery of the Winchester arsenal.

From where he stood Sam could see the Impala quite clearly. The tree had fallen over from across the street, landing only on the Impala and nothing else. A foot to the left and disaster would have been completely avoided. As it were, the front end of the '67 Chevy was completely smashed in. Odds were, the engine would need some major work before they could go anywhere.

"We're real sorry, Mr. Lanier, but it's not like we can control where trees fall 'round here," one of the cops was saying to Dean.

They were using fake names, obviously. Here, they were Sam and Dean Lanier, brothers traveling to across the state to pay their little sister and her husband a visit. Their bogus story didn't matter, really. What did matter was the very prevalent possibility that Dean was three seconds from clocking the police officer in front of him.

Dean clenched and unclenched his hands. Sam could almost see him counting to ten in his head – not that the method was helping the color in his face any. If he changed shades just a little bit more, Dean would have blended in with Tom's foyer.

Several minutes later, Dean stomped up the porch stairs and threw himself down on the steps. He sat with his elbows on his knees, staring intently at the wood chipper that was slowly destroying the tree that had killed his baby girl. Knowing he was ran the risk of being physically attacked, Sam sat beside his brother, putting one hand to his shoulder.

"Sorry, Dean," Sam said.

Dean's jaw was one hard line, like he was biting his tongue or grinding his teeth. So long as he wasn't throwing any punches, Sam didn't care what he did. "The mechanic in town says he'll let me use his garage to fix her up. Not sure if he's got the parts in stock though, but he says he'll put in the order."

Sam almost chuckled. Of course Dean wouldn't leave his car in the hands of a "professional." He was probably the only one who could repair the Impala just right. "So how long do you think we'll be in town?"

"Anywhere from two days to a week," Dean said. He gave a heavy sigh. "Don't really care what she looks like right now. As soon as I get her runnin', I was gonna drive us over to Bobby's so I can fix her up there. I'm gonna go out of my skull in this place, Sammy."

A small crowd had formed on the side of the street that the tree had fallen from. Pitchford was a small, close-knit place full of housewives and well-mannered old folk. Currently, their audience consisted of some busy-body blue haired old ladies and several middle aged women. Half a dozen kids stood close by to the same group, messing around on skateboards or jumping over puddles and fallen branches that had accumulated during the night's storm. The sky was still murky grey and the air was humid, thick. It would probably start storming again soon.

The Impala was eventually towed to Barry's Garage, owned by a heavy-set man named Barry Gerlander. Barry was greasy and smelled like cat piss, and he had a terrible habit of hovering over Dean's shoulder while he was trying to work. After realizing that Dean would strangle the mechanic if left alone with him, Sam remained in the garage with his brother. Dean didn't say much while he worked, but Sam didn't mind. After a while, Barry grew bored of being ignored, and retreated to his office to watch porn on his computer and take a nap.

Sam had been sitting there for an hour, watching Dean toil over the Impala. The damage was worse than expected, and of course, Barry didn't have the parts they needed. All Dean could do was try to knock out some of the body damage and do minor repairs to the mechanics. The rain had picked up again. Wind blew in underneath the flimsy garage door, as did rain.

"You got your phone on you?" Sam said.

Dean didn't acknowledge his brother for a while. He was currently underneath the Impala, tinkering with something. When he wheeled himself out, there were oil stains all over his face and neck. Sam didn't balk at the grime; it suited Dean, in a way. If there had been any girls in the garage, Sam knew they'd be squealing.

"What?" Dean said gruffly. He sat up, rubbing a rag between his hands.

"Your phone," Sam repeated. "Do you have it?"

Dean dug into his jeans pocket, after a moment producing his cell phone. "Why do you need it?"

Sam's own phone was sitting beside him on one of the milk crates he'd pulled over beside the Impala. "Well I can't get reception on mine," he said. "Damn. Yours isn't working either." The same sickly stirring sensation was back in Sam's gut. It was the same anxiety he'd felt the night before, only worse. Major storms, knocked-out cell reception…this wasn't looking good. The last time they'd run into something like this, they'd come face-to-face with a town full of demons.

"Go ask Barry if you can use his phone," Dean said. "Power's still on. Maybe the phone lines still work, too."

It was a shot in the dark and both men knew it. Where there was smoke, sometimes there was fire. In their case, where there was smoke, it was usually black and demonic.

Sam knocked on the door of Barry's office. It took a minute or two, but the stout mechanic came to the door and asked Sam if they were done fixing the damn car yet.

"Uh, no, sir, not yet," Sam said. "I was wondering if I could use your phone, though?"

"What for?"

"Well, we're supposed to be visiting our sister. She's gonna be worried sick when we don't show up today like we were supposed to."

Barry looked up at Sam, beetle-black eyebrows lifting slightly. "Sure, don't see why not. Come on in, then." He stepped aside and gestured to the lime-green phone hanging from the wall of his office.

Sam ignored the sweaty smell of the space and grabbed the phone. He punched in Castiel's phone number and held the receiver to his ear. What he heard was not surprising, but it made his heart drop several levels.

"Phone's dead," Sam said, mouth suddenly dry. There would be no calling Castiel for help now. And thanks to the sigils on their ribs, Cas wouldn't be able to find them, either. They were trapped. Trapped and helpless.

"Bet your ass it is, sonny boy."

Sam turned, one hand flying up to catch the blow that Barry had thrown at the back of his head. The mechanic's eyes were black and full of spite. Behind the portly man, Sam could hear Dean pounding against the locked office door that Sam hadn't notice Barry close.

Barry caught Sam by the wrists and tossed him across the expanse of his closet-sized office. Sam's head hit the window and it shattered. He felt glass break into his skin, could feel the heat of his blood mingling with the frigid rain that now poured into the office in sheets. If not for the spots in front of his eyes, Sam might have been able to stop Barry from picking him up one last time. He was thrown against another wall of the office and fell limp to the ground. Blood, smeared in streaks and blots along the wall and the floor, marked his progress from the window to where he now lay in a heap.

The last thing Sam heard before losing consciousness was the sound of Dean's voice as he called out to his brother. Sam knew he should respond, let Dean know he was all right, but his muscles were weak and oh, there was just so much blood. The younger Winchester's head hit the floor one last time and he knew no more.