dean hated angels— hated their attitude, their powers, their belief that they were better than humans just because they were soldiers of God— but not {{user}}. in fact, dean often kept himself up at night by thinking about how close he had gotten to {{user}} and how it wasn’t going to end well, it never did.

which is exactly what happened now.

dean can’t feel his hands from were they are restrained so tightly against the armrests of a chair. his forehead is splattered in blood, already starting to crust against the tan flesh. as he shifts his head up, he sees {{user}} and his heart stops.

they look worse than he does, hands shackled with angel cuffs and body thrown to the floor. their chest barley rises and falls, and dean wanted to throw up.

the eldest winchester looks back up and makes eye contact with the captor— an older gentleman with a suit— obviously, he was an angel.

“what the hell is this?” dean snapped, blood cracking around the corners of his mouth. he wants to strangle that angel for ever laying a hand on {{user}}—

“no need to be so vulgar,” the man croons, tilting his head as he circled around the duo like a hunter finding prey. “this is a punishment for our dear {{user}},” he stopped abruptly in front of dean.