For a moment Stan just lay there numbly, trying to understand what was going on, what had happened the last time he was awake…
Then it all came back to him in one of those painful flashes like they show in the movies: getting attacked by the thugs, the one who'd hit him in the back with something, saying that Bill-
Stan tried at once to miracle himself out of the trunk, and realized too late that there were two things keeping him from doing so. One was a sigil which suddenly appeared on the roof of the trunk, flaring with angry red light; he couldn't read it, but he knew it was something demonic, and that it was meant to keep him penned in here. The other was whatever the dumb demon had put on his back.
When he tried to reach for his angelic power, his shoulder, which up until then had just been throbbing uncomfortably, began absolutely flaring, to the point where he was seeing spots before his eyes, and had to collapse face-first onto the floor of the trunk.
...What in the name of all that's holy-!
He tried again, and the same horrible biting burning pain spread from his back all the way over his body, feeling like it would actually stop his heart if he kept this up. Stan was forced to curl in on himself, whimpering pitifully, until it returned to a more tolerable level of agony. As it did, it became rapidly clear to him that Bill had no intention of letting him escape from this trunk.
...Did Ford know they were gonna do this?
The thought made Stan's heart squeeze in his chest, and for an uncomfortable moment he felt himself fighting back-fighting back salt water that must have leaked through the trunk already and gotten in his eyes, because obviously real angels didn't cry.
Ford couldn't have wanted Bill to do this to him...right?
Even if he didn't flat-out drown, he'd probably be trapped down here forever, unable to escape unless some humans managed to find this car and let him out, and what were the odds of that happening if it sunk deep enough? Surely he wasn't enough of an annoyance for Stanford to wish that on him, right?
...Right?
Somehow, through the noise of rushing water, he made out the sound of the radio turning on, and after a moment of static a voice began singing a tune he wasn't familiar with, but he could make out the lyrics well enough.
Who wants...to live...forever?
Who wants...to live...forever?
Oh oooh oh
There's no time for us…
There's no place for us-
Stan didn't hear the rest of it, because he...went a little ballistic. He started pounding frantically on the lid of the trunk, beating against the sigil with his hands and feet and screaming at the top of his lungs, even as he heard the speakers start to fizzle out and die because water was soaking through them at last.
"LET ME OUT, YOU MOTHER[CENSORED]! MY LIFE IS NOT A JOKE FOR YOU TA MAKE FUN OF! GAAAAHHH!"
Of course, all his pounding and yelling had no effect besides using up a lot of the oxygen and bruising his hands; soon enough he gave up in exhaustion, and all he could hear was the sound of rushing water covering the top of the trunk, and feel drops of cold seawater dripping through onto his face.
Stan let out a small dry sob of panic, and tried again to will himself free; both sigils flared up at once, making it clear that he wasn't going anywhere.
And then, when he recovered from the fresh burst of pain, Stan tried something he hadn't done in a long time.
He started to pray frantically, in the back of his head.
I've never asked much from You. I've tried ta be a good angel-or at least a semi-decent one. I've never broken any of Your laws...excessively, or done anything bad enough ta get me kicked out of the heavenly host. So please, just do me this one favor: get me out of here. Don't make me die in here, or get discorporated or whatever. Please.
He didn't know if he believed that it would work; most of the time He just seemed okay with letting Stan figure things out for himself, rather than lending a hand.
But then, out of the blue, something long and sharp unexpectedly ripped through the trunk-by apparent sheer coincidence, it pierced right through the seal that was holding it shut.
Sirena was just an ordinary mermaid who, while admittedly curious about all the strange things humans kept dumping in the ocean, was not curious enough to actually want to be one, despite the stereotypes that Disney likes to perpetuate.
She'd heard about these strange oddly shaped giant shell things that humans apparently rode in from some of her cousins, but this was her first time seeing one up close; she hadn't known they could go in the water.
She swam closer as it sank, wondering why the sides had see-through spots like that; what evolutionary purpose did that serve? It felt like looking at a jellyfish, except it had more innards and they looked a little less disgusting.
Sirena noticed a spot at the back of the shell that reminded her a little of the large wooden chests her people sometimes found that contained pretty sparkly things, shaped like a kind of lid; maybe this would contain sparkly things too! She could show them off to her family and tell them about the adventure she'd had!
She swam over to it and tried to pull it open, but it was a lot less cooperative than the chests usually were, and wouldn't budge. After a moment of frustrated tugging, Sirena decided to use the spear her brother had given her. It had an enormous shark's tooth tied to the end, and had been made so sharp that it could cut through anything. So without further ado, Sirena plunged it into the lid thingy, and began cutting it open.
Much to her disappointment, when she finished she opened it to find...nothing.
Stan had no idea how he did it.
But when the seal holding the trunk shut was broken, it was somehow enough for him to push through the pain of his brand, and use his powers to take himself to somewhere that he'd be safe from Bill and his flying monkeys.
When he recovered enough to open his eyes, he found himself lying on the floor of a strange room, in a strange house.
It looked like someone's living room, with a musty carpet and a television set against the far wall, and right in front of him was a big, comfy-looking yellow armchair that seemed to be calling his name. It smelled dusty, like it was hardly ever used, and out of the corners of his eyes Stan could see a lot of strange junk piled up here and there around him.
For the moment, though, he decided that he could wait to find out what all of it was and where he was and who this joint belonged to; he got up off the floor, on slightly shaky legs, and flopped into the chair before slowly unfurling his wings (and feeling a small prickle of relief that at least he could still do that). Stan burrowed down into his own (somewhat grimy) white feathers, scooted around until he was comfortable, and within seconds he was out like a light.
He was so physically and emotionally drained by what he'd just gone through that he didn't even have the energy to snore.
An hour later Ford came home from yet another expedition to the forest, where he'd once again tried and failed to track down the hidebehind (he admitted ruefully to himself that he might have made the creature a little too shy when he helped out in the design department back before he Fell). On the bright side, he'd discovered a few fascinating new species of snowshoe hare hopping around in the snow (it had hind legs that were literally shaped like snowshoes, making him debate whether to classify it as a 'literal snowshoe hare'), and was still scribbling observations about it in his journal as he came inside and headed upstairs to organize some of the samples he'd collected.
He was so absorbed in his work that he didn't even notice the angel sleeping in his living room.
Technically "Who Wants to Live Forever?" wasn't written until 1986; let's just say that for demons, laws of time and space can occasionally be toyed with. Especially if they want to be cruel to someone.