The girl was giving them nothing. Nothing. Sam had even tried his puppy-dog look on her, and the brothers still couldn't get a peep out of her. Well, not a peep that made any damn sense, anyway.
"Alright, sweetie-pie," Dean said, striding in a slow circle around the demon trap they had made. Directly in the middle was a young woman tied to a chair. What looked like a young woman, anyway. "I am going to ask one more time. What are you, and why are you here?"
"I've told you a thousand times," the girl groaned in her English twang, "I'm a human being, like you and him." She nodded to Sam, who stood a little off with his arms crossed. He had that look on his face, like he was thinking real hard.
Dean sighed. "Don't tell me you believe the bitch," he said, and Sam shrugged. "I don't know, Dean, I mean, the holy water didn't work on her, she has no reaction to the rock salt or iron—what if we just made a mistake?"
"There was no mistake, Sam," Dean said, and turned back to the girl, "we saw the little tart and her friend appear out of thin air in the blue phone booth of theirs. Don't tell me that crap is natural."
Sam didn't respond. Dean smiled. The girl swallowed. "Look, I can explain," the girl pleaded, and Dean groaned and straightened. "Don't start. Aliens don't exist, girly. And if you tell me that phone booth is a spaceship one more time—"
"Call box. It's a police call box."
"Yeah—whatever—hey, missy, don't you start getting smart with me—"
"The name is Rose, and it's rather difficult to not be smart compared to you."
Dean narrowed his eyes. The girl—Rose—was seriously starting to get on his nerves. "Who do you think you're dealing with, exactly?" he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Rose shrunk back a little and glanced at Sam, as though he would be able to keep her safe. Wrong, girl, very wrong. "Doesn't really matter, anyway," he continued, continuing his round about the chair. "You're just bait. What we really want is your boyfriend, the fella with the spiky hair."
Rose's face blanched. Dean smiled again, and both he and Sam exited the barn, leaving the girl behind in complete darkness.
"Do you really think this is a good idea?" Sam said as they walked back to the Impala to wait, "I mean, we could really be pissing off her friend by doing this, and we have no idea what they're capable of."
Dean crossed his arms. "Well, do you have a better idea, then?" When Sam didn't answer, he continued: "Look, it'll be real easy. The barn's been doused with gas. When her boy-toy comes to get her, we'll just light the place up and wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am, we're finished." Dean unlocked the doors of the car and they slid into their seats. "About time, too. I'm sick and tired of this crazy-ass backward island—"
"Well, I'm afraid you'll have to live with it a bit longer," a voice said, and the nose of a gun pressed against the side of Dean's head. Dean sighed and lifted his hands. He glanced over at Sam to see him with a gun to his head, too. Dean cursed under his breath.
A figure appeared in front of the Impala. The man from the phone booth. "Excellent work, Sherlock, John, really." His eyes met Dean's. "Now, Mister Winchester, you will follow me to that barn over there and you will release my friend. Try anything, and you will regret it. Understand?"
Grudgingly, Dean nodded. The man glanced at Sam. "Does your brother understand? Wouldn't want anything to happen to him, now, would we?"
Hatred flared up in Dean's chest. It took everything in him not to come crashing through the windshield to break the skinny bastard's neck. The man smiled. "Well, then," he said, turning toward the door, "allons-y."