Dean closed his eyes frustratedly, trying to shut the sound out. The two humans were yelling at each other again, voices mingling and clashing in the cold morning air.
He didn't want this. He didn't want these humans. He didn't want the chains that had burnt red rings around his wrists. He didn't want the sticky blood congealing on his forearm. He didn't want the ultimate loneliness that was threatening to shove him over the edge.
No. Stop whining. He heard the voice of his mentor, Hadriel, in his head, commanding him sternly. Get yourself together. Complaining about your situation won't help you. Analyse it. Work out what to do next.
Alright. He could do that. First of all, who were these humans? Hunters, obviously. The older one seemed to hate him. He could see the loathing blazing in his eyes whenever he looked at him. The younger one - he wasn't so sure. He held contempt for the angel, sure. But he lacked the raging, violent hatred that his elder possessed.
The gun. He could feel the hum of celestial steel even from a few meters away. John was holding it, gesturing angrily with it as he argued with his son. The gun itself was normal. The bullets were another matter. They would have killed him. How did the hunters get hold of them?
As it was, the one lodged in his arm hurt like hell. Celestial metal explained why it wasn't healing. But it didn't explain why he was tired and dizzy, all things an angel never experienced.
What was happening to him?
He wriggled uncomfortably against the cuffs. But they were too tight, and would not slip an inch.
Finally, Sam came back. He looked angry. "Get up." He ordered abruptly.
Dean struggled up, shaking Sam's hand off his shoulder.
"Lets get to the car and I'll fix the wound." Said Sam, aloofness colouring his tone.
"Ouch!" Dean snarled.
Sam ignored him, but continued probing the wound with a pair of tweezers.
"Ouch!" Dean snapped again.
"Stop moving." Responded Sam harshly. He finally got hold of the bullet, and yanked it out, drawing a muffled curse from Dean. He swiped away the blood with an antiseptic wipe, then wrapped a bandage around his arm. "All done. Now get in the car. Dad? We're done here."
The tension in the car was thick enough to cut with a knife. Sam was staring straight ahead, refusing to even glance at Dean, his expression steely. John had his eyes glued on the road. Dean wondered what had gone wrong.
Finally, he decided to speak. "So where are we going?" He asked.
No one answered. Sam frowned slightly, but otherwise, there was no response.
Dean gritted his teeth in frustration, then tried again: "Where are we going?"
John replied, his voice flat. "I swear, Wings, if you say another word, I'll pull over right here and put a bullet through your brain, no matter what Sam says."
Dean clamped his mouth shut, but shot a ferocious glare at the older man.
The hours passed, and Dean just stared resentfully out of the window at the scenery flashing past.
Finally, the car pulled off the highway into a muddy track, that was littered on either side with all manner of rubbish: metal parts and rusty old cars. They drew into a yard, scattered with similar trash.
The door was opened by a short, stocky guy in a baseball cap and a beard. He saw Dean, and stared.
"I told you before, Winchester, I'm not havin' you bringin' no angels into my house."
"This is different, Bobby." Interjected Sam.
"We'll tell you inside." John cast a suspicious glare around the junkyard.
Bobby scowled, but stepped aside to let them in. Dean tripped a little on the threshold, but was steadied by Sam's hand on his shoulder. Damn these stupid handcuffs. He kept his head down, avoiding the older hunter's hostile eye.
They hurried through to a dusty, cluttered old sitting room. Suddenly, a few feet into the room, Dean hit a hard, invisible surface in the air in front of him. He stumbled back, wobbling uncertainly. He had smacked his head, and white stars were exploding in his vision. Someone caught him, steadying him. Gradually, the stars disappeared, and he opened his eyes. He wanted to say something, but his mouth wasn't working properly. He blinked rapidly. Stupid...Stars...Couldn't see a damn thing...
"Hey, kid. You just hit the edge of the trap. You ok?" A rough, concerned voice asked.
"Yeah." He lied. He opened his eyes fully, and stared at the air in front of him. Balancing carefully on one foot, he kicked thin air. Except it wasn't thin air. His toe connected with a hard, unyielding surface.
"Angel trap, boy. You ain't goin' anywhere fast with that." It was Bobby who had spoken. Dean looked up. On the ceiling was painted a circle inscribed with lines and symbols, some of which he recognised from the pretty bracelets on his wrists. He nodded at the hunter. He'd heard of angel traps, of course. His brothers and sisters back home had sometimes talked about them, always with a note of irritation in their voices. He'd never seen one, but then he'd never really spent much time in the company of hunters. At least not since he became an angel. He didn't remember anything from before that.
The other hunters filed around him, and sat down on the sofa opposite. All eyes were fixed on him. Seeing the barrier extended around him in a seamless circle, he turned his full attention on them.
They were all as different as chalk and cheese. Sam was the tallest, his lanky form leaning forward in his seat. His hazel eyes were bright and intelligent, overshadowed by shaggy brown hair. Bobby was much shorter. His face was creased and lined by years of pain and loss, yet Dean sensed he had a good heart. John. Burning animosity crawled behind his dark eyes. He looked strained, as if he would much rather be carving out his captive's heart than asking questions.
"Sit down. You're going to be here for while." John was speaking. Dean remained standing stubbornly.
"Look, you do what we say, and answer our questions, and we take off the handcuffs. Ok?" Said Sam. Dean considered the offer. It did sound good, getting rid of the stupid things.
He sat down.