A/N: Thanks for the couple of reviews! Yes, Castiel will be appearing soon and no, the angel caught last chapter was not Lucifer. But he is one you know. Also, this story is entirely for fun, and practice. I don't pretend to be a very good writer, but I'm giving it my best shot.

Also, chapter 1 has been revised a little. Just FYI!

Diclaimer: Don't own, I'm merely playing in Kripke's sandbox

SPN

Dean tapped out the beat of one of his favourite Led Zepplin songs against the kitchen table, anything to keep his brain occupied and stop him from charging after Sam. It wasn't totally his fault after all. Sam had started it all. Dean repeated that over and over to the rhythm. He figured if he kept at it, eventually he might start believing it.

A loud thump made the teen jump out of his reverie, eyes darting to the duffle bag now sitting pretty on the table. His father was looking at him, eyebrows raised.

"Sam's pissed," Dean said simply. John sighed, dropping the duffle to the ground unceremoniously.

"Transfer went good. Had to dose the bird with extra, he almost took off Caleb's damn head with those wings. He's quick, might be good for fighting. Still no name though." Dean nodded along to his dad's words, eyes following John's path to the fridge. Stop number one post-hunt; food. He knew this whole chat was a distraction technique, probably a little more effective than Dean's attempt.

"So, there was only one then?"

John paused mid-rummage of the fridge, one hand on what Dean thought was yesterday's Chinese leftovers. It had either been take out or Lucky Charms. Sam hadn't been too happy with the choices. Kid preferred rabbit food, for reasons Dean would never understand.

"No, there was two of them. Blondie out there had a little friend, solid colour wing. Maybe black, could'a been dark brown for all I know. Lost him in the trees after we pulled Big Bird, fast son of a bitch."

Dean perked up, his interest piqued. A plan hatched in his mind. This was his chance! "You going back for him? Soon?"

His dad straightened up, watching Dean cautiously. Dean tried to keep his expression neutral, but he saw the exasperation break on his father's face and oops, rumbled.

"Dean, we talked about this-"

"No, we didn't! You talked, I had to listen. Dad, c'mon. I swear, I won't get in the way or anything. Just gimmie a chance. Sam can stay at Ellen's for one day. Him and Jo can braid each other's hair or something. C'mon, please!" He was no master of puppy eyes, but Dean gave it his all, staring imploringly at his father.

"No, Dean. Not yet." He held up a hand, silencing Dean's cries of indignation. "I know you want to start hunting, I get that. I taught you how to use the weapons, and I'll teach you how to hunt. But not yet. I need you here, keeping an eye on Sammy when I'm gone."

"But-"

"The answer is no, Dean. Accept it." That tone meant no more arguments, and like the good little soldier he was, he stopped arguing.

"Yes, sir." Dean shut his mouth, lips drawn in a tight line and fists balled in his lap.

John patted him gently on the back, the apology unspoken but present as he left his eldest to his thoughts.

SPN

It really wasn't fair. Not even in the slightest.

Lying on his bed, Dean pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. Saying dinner had been tense was a total understatement. His dad had been trying to avoid talking about anything more than the pizza on the table, Dean had tried desperately to coax his dad into the wanted topic and Sam refused to talk to either of them. Eventually, Dean had given up and retreated to the Impala, which he'd been given as a 16th (his dad decided a truck was more practical, and besides, Dean fawned over her night and day). He found some joy in giving her a nice polish. Nothing cheered him up quite like Baby, all smooth, sleek lines and gleaming black paint.

But there was only so much to do to a car in pretty spotless condition, and so Dean was back in his room, listening to a muffled phone call his dad was having in the living room. Okay, so maybe he couldn't make out the words but it was either that or actually do his homework, and like hell was he going to do that before he absolutely had to.

He clicked his tongue, absently wondering if playing Metallica at full volume would tick off the neighbours when a faint tap-tap noise sounded from somewhere just beyond his wall. Dean sat upright, pressing his ear against the wall as the noise repeated. Dean grinned. Tap code. Both of them knew morse code, thanks to their dad, and tap code was a cruder version. Easy as pie. The most annoying bit was how damn long it took to reply, abbreviations were practically staple.

Dean waited for Sam to stop before tapping a reply.

Sam.

SRY.

Y?

Pissed U off.

N, UR GD. SRY earlier.

UR GD.

GN, Sam.

GN, Dean.

Dean grinned to himself, partly because Sam had finally given in and initiated a truce, but mostly because it meant they weren't going to be snapping at each other all damn day. The squirming guilt in his stomach was subsiding, now he could focus entirely on trying to get his dad to take him hunting. Though that was going to be harder than it sounded. Short of catching an angel himself and dropping it at his dad's feet, he had no idea how to pull this off.

Wait.

Dean's eyes widened. He could just catch a damn angel. Then his dad wouldn't be able to say no. Hell, they had the equipment. He had the know-how. He even knew where there was an angel lurking about. He could totally pull this off!

Dean leaned over to check the clock. 22:43 blinked back in thick red lines. He pressed his ear against the wall between him and Sam and tapped out his brother's name. He held his breath. Please be asleep, please be asleep. No reply came, his luck was in! He checked again, just to be sure, before crawling off his bed and slipping his shoes and jacket on. Sneaking past his dad would be the trick, especially borrowing the equipment from the truck.

Dean slipped out of his room, tip-toeing down the hallway. He paused before the living room, casting a quick eye inside.

And there was his dad, an empty tumbler in one hand, the other still wrapped around the phone. Dean could feel a stupidly large grin splitting his face, before darting into the kitchen and snatching the truck keys off the table.

Time to catch himself an angel.

SPN

The Impala rumbled to a gentle stop on the dirt road that skirted the edges of the forest. Dean peered out the window, taking in the surroundings. It wasn't the first time he'd been up here, but that had been during the day. Night was another story. The trees made a dark, looming mass, stretching for miles in every direction. At least it was clear, a full moon gleaming from its' seat in the sky.

"No backing out now," he muttered to himself, getting out of the Impala and retrieving the equipment from the backseat. He patted her on the bonnet and, with a deep breath, strode purposely into the shadows.

SPN

He walked, bag weighing heavily on his shoulders, until his legs started to ache. Maybe this had been a bit reckless. He wasn't actually sure how to track an angel at night. Marks on the trees, branches cut away by wings, hell, even footprints were obscured. It was hard to tell what was what, and now the stupid moonlight was obscured by the canopy above. Dean cursed under his breath, dropping the bag a rummaging for a torch. That was when he heard it.

A quiet rustle, off to his left.

Any untrained idiot would assume it was the wind, but Dean was anything but. The night was still, there was no wind, which meant one thing. He was being watched.

He dug out the torch, pretending to check it. On-off, on-off, on-off. The rustling started up again, moving closer. Dean tried to keep his breathing even, not easy because he was starting to realise how dumb this plan had been. These things could be dangerous, that was why John Winchester went with a group, never on his own. What the hell had he been thinking? Screw it, he couldn't back out now.

Dean whistled softly to himself, his empty hand sliding into the bag. His fingers curled around his dad's bola gun. The noises shifted closer still, Dean could almost swear it was breathing down his neck.

It was now or never.

Without hesitation, he turned sharply with a shout, swinging the torch around. For a heartbeat, the light skimmed across a pale face before a shriek burst forth and the trees were near torn apart as the angel tried to flee. Ears ringing, he charged after the shape crashing through the branches. There was no room for a proper take-off but damn, the little bastard was fast. Any second now, it'd find the space to really kick off and then Dean was screwed. He just needed a clear shot. Just one shot.

The trees peeled away, opening into a clearing and Dean could see glossy dark wings spread wide above him. Shit, shit shit, you are not getting away from me! Dean dropped to one knee, bracing the bola gun against his arm and aimed. The angel rose up with a powerful beat of its' wings, jet black feathers gleaming in the moonlight.

Dean waited, heart hammering in his chest as the wings pulled down.

Now.

He fired, and the bola tore through the sky.

Dean's aim wasn't as good as he liked to think, but it was true. One ball crashed into the right wing, the second wrapping itself around the torso and left wing joint. The angel's cry rang out as it fell from the sky, too high, too big a fall with too much weight.

"No!" Dean clutched at his hair in panic. He needed it to be alive. His dad would never let him hunt again if he screwed this up. Dean slapped himself across the face.

"Calm down, you stupid sonuvabitch!" He needed to check. Maybe it was okay. Dean pelted through the forest, following a trail of broken branches, murmuring a mantra of please, don't be dead, ya dumb bird.

He halted sharply, just stopping without tripping over what looked like a snapped young tree. Dean swallowed, stepping lightly over the debris. He glanced down. Skid marks in the dirt. A mark, a gap, a mark, a gap; like a stone skipping the water. Then he saw the stone.

The torchlight tracked over the prone creature as Dean approached cautiously. But it wasn't moving. Hell, it didn't even look like it was breathing. The bola had managed to trap the right arm awkwardly under the battered right wing. Raised red welts lay across the back where the bola's cord had wound itself, along with a nasty, rounded bruise forming on the left shoulder.

Dean bit his lip, and prodded the angel with his foot. It was worth a shot. But it simply rocked with the movement, falling still within seconds.

"Damn it. Damn it." Well, that was that. He could kiss hunting goodbye. Couldn't even catch a small one without killing it. Just his damn luck.

"Stupid oversized bird," He muttered. The angel simply growled in reply.

Wait.

It growled? Dean leant over the angel and sure enough, its' chest was rising and falling rhythmically. Sneaky bastard had been holding his breath! The pale face under a mop of dark hair was scrunched up in what he assumed was pain, considering the mangled wings. Dean breathed a breath of relief. So, his quarry was alive.

Except now he had no idea what to do. He hadn't even considered transport. The Impala wasn't big enough to carry it. Well, fuck. Dean dragged a hand across his face. He couldn't leave it here, not after what he'd done to it. In this state, it wasn't going to last a week. And that was being optimistic!

"Okay, just...sit still." Dean pulled out his hunting knife and sliced through the cords, the heavy weighted ends of the bola falling away with dull thuds. The angel didn't even twitch. Dean's hand hovered over the right wing. It looked dislocated at the least. He was no expert in wings but maybe if he could just feel it...

His fingers barely grazed the wing before he found himself sprawled on his back in the dirt, a slim hand wrapped around his throat and one extremely pissed off angel glaring down with the brightest blue, pain-riddled eyes.

This was it then. He was going to die here, alone. Dean closed his eyes, braced himself and waited. And waited. And waited some more before tentatively opening one eye. The angel, still braced above him, was breathing heavily. It's, no, his eyes were tightly shut, face contorted in agony. Dean swallowed, easy now that the grip at his throat had gone slack.

"H-hey," he started softly, if shakily. The angel's blue eyes were open again, watching warily as Dean lifted his hand. "I can- I can help. With your wings." He extended his arm just a little, and apparently that was just too close. The angel gave a sharp screech and bolted away from him, wings beating uselessly as it tried to take off. He rose up and fell twice, disappearing into the darkness of the woods.

Dean watched him go, stunned. His heart felt like a jackhammer beating at his ribs. He'd never gotten that close to an angel.

Despite the faint tremble in his legs, Dean stood up, tempted to chase him down again. But his watch was reading 02:19 and he was already pushing his luck.

He gazed out at the horizon, and turned to backtrack and get his dad's stuff. Everything needed to be back in its' place. Tomorrow was Friday anyway, he could come back.

He would come back.