A/N: Hi everyone! Sorry it's been so long. I've been a bit unable to come onto the site recently, but now I am back! Had most of this chapter written on my PC, so last night I thought I'd finish it off (though I'm sorry it's still short, but hopefully the next one will be longer) and upload it! Thanks so much for all of your support while I've been away. Enjoy. X

CHAPTER 1.

"Dean, you just shot that guy!"

Dean wearily rubbed his hands over his face.

"I've had no sleep for days, alright?! At least we got the Skinwalker," He gestured to the still wolf corpse further ahead on the road, which had taken a silver bullet to the head.

Unfortunately, so had the young man in front of them.

Dean turned the corpse over with the toe of his boot so he was facing upwards. Sam felt sick as he looked at the young man below them; smooth face slack in death, his blond hair matted in the blood that still poured warm through the hole in his forehead. The only good point of this situation was that at least he hadn't suffered.

Dean shuffled his feet anxiously.

"I guess we'll need to get rid of the bodies now,"

Sam shot him a dirty look.

"That wouldn't have been a plural if you could think before you shoot,"

Dean punched him on the arm as he started walking back to the Impala.

"Whatever, bitch,"

Trust Sam to make him feel like crap-

"Ugh..."

The brothers stilled at the noise.

It should be impossible.

But the noise was coming from the dead body.

The dead body Dean had shot in the head.

That Dean had shot in the head with a silver bullet.

Both brothers reached for their weapons.

"I knew it," Dean aimed his .45 caliber Colt squarely at the head which was slowly shaking side to side. The hole which had been there previously now gone. How the hell that had happened Dean had no idea, but it did confirm one thing.

"I never miss when it comes to evil sons of bitches,"

This was the worst hangover he had ever had.

It was officially worse than the time Greece convinced him to try Ouzo.

"Ugh..."

Shifting about in place, Britain estimated that sometime between leaving the bar and getting to his hotel, he must have lost consciousness.

It felt as if someone had shot him in the head, but at least his body seemed to be alright.

The episode had also brought back most of his wits, and after a quick pat down of his trousers, Britain ascertained that he had not been mugged. It was far past time to call a cab.

"Don't move another inch,"

Hand still on chest, still in wallet-groping pose, Britain looked up into the mouth of a gun.

And then his eyes trailed up to another mouth – this one distinctively unhappy.

Ah. Perhaps he had been shot then.

"Umm..."

"I said not an inch, demon scum,"

The man who said these words was seemingly quite tall, but then again, so are most people when you're looking up at them from the floor. A cold, hard floor as well.

Good Lord was that dog shit just to the left of his ear?

"Christo!"

"Excuse me?!" Really, the nerve of some people! "I think you're taking this demon nonsense too far,"

The man holding the gun to his head was soon joined by another, also aiming his pistol right between his eyes.

"Don't play games with us; we know what we saw, and if you want to stay in one piece you better start answering some of our questions." Mr. Definitely-Part-Giant removed the safety on his gun and readied it in warning. "Now, what are you?"