"Keep an eye on him. If he tries anything, you stab him with this. Understand?" John handed a knife to a boy who looked a few years younger than Dean. Dean eyed them both suspiciously. They were standing in a parking lot, next to a old-fashioned black car. A 1967 Chevrolet Impala, by the looks of it.

The cold air had helped clear his head, meaning he was starting to recall what had happened. And wishing he couldn't. He pushed away the memories. He couldn't think about that now. What was important was to work out the situation he was in now.

He was in the deep end this time. The handcuffs on his wrists prevented him from using any of his powers. He didn't know how much damage had been done to his wings. Frankly, he didn't want to know. But no doubt he would soon find out. Hopefully, the blood wouldn't show through his dark jacket

If looks could kill, Dean would already be dead by now. John was looking murderous. If it hadn't been for the bartender's plea to leave the premises, he was sure his body would be lying in a ditch three miles away. Maybe it soon would be.

He needed to get out of here quick. Just as he started inching off to the side, the conversation stopped. Sam, the boy, opened the door and nodded stiffly at Dean to get in. Dean considered refusing and making him use force, but decided there was no point. He slid in, balancing awkwardly with his hands chained together. Sam waited patiently, then got in the other side. They both glanced at each other, full of equal parts hostility and curiosity, then looked away.

Dean leaned his head against the cool window and closed his eyes wearily. The vibrating rhythm of the engine started to lull him to sleep... He jolted awake. Since when did angels need sleep?

A tiny, niggling thought crept into his mind. Maybe what had happened last night had made him...human. He shivered, driving any notion of rest from his mind.

Sam looked at him oddly, his hand going to his knife.

Dring dring! The noise of a phone going off cut through the moment. Sam picked up. "Hello? Um its for you, Dad. Calls himself Gordon."

John pulled the car over so hard, they nearly went into the ditch.

He grabbed the phone off his shocked son, opened the door, and rushed out. Dean watched him yelling at someone on the phone some distance away.

Presently, he became aware of a pair of eyes fixed on him. He turned around to see Sam gazing inquisitively at him. He put on his best hostile glare and scowled back.

"What're you staring at?"

"Nothin'. I was just wondering who your vessel was, before you took him over."

Oh typical human. So judgmental.

"This isn't a vessel." Muttered Dean cryptically, knowing how the half-answer would annoy the boy.

The kid seemed to realise Dean was just baiting him, and asked no more questions.

Dean turned his attention back to the hunter on the hard shoulder outside. He was pacing now, gesticulating angrily. A few more minutes passed, and John finally snapped the phone shut, and turned back to the car. He ripped open the door on Dean's side.

"Out, Wings."

Dean manoeuvred out, stumbling as he was unable to balance without his hands free. The minute he was out, John forcefully shoved him to the ground. His knees hit the concrete with a crack.

John coldly placed the barrel of a gun on his forehead. "Say goodbye, Wings. Looks like you just turned out to be more trouble than you're worth."

Dean closed his eyes, trying to control the shaking. He was going to die. He was going to die. He was going to die.

"Dad! What the hell are you doing?" Sam advanced on his father, fists clenched. "You said we needed him for questioning!"

Dean felt something warm and wet run down his forearm. He glanced down. The bullet had not entirely missed its mark. It had dug into his arm above his wrist. He twisted in his handcuffs, trying to stop the bleeding. He ended up cradling it to his side, the fabric of his shirt soaking up most of the blood.

When Sam finished yelling at his father, he returned to Dean's side. He knelt down beside the angel, yanking his arm free to examine it. Dean yelped, as the human's long fingers came in contact with the wound.

"Let me see it." He commanded.

Dean gave up. Resistance was futile anyway. The hunter was stronger than him in his present state.

He felt Sam's fingers gently prising his arm open. He tried to pull it away. The wound was not healing as it ought to be. Instead, he could feel blood pooling stickily in his half-closed hand.

Sam grimaced, but it was evidently not the first, nor the worst, bullet wound he had ever seen.

"Wait here. I'll go get the bandages from the car." He said, climbing to his feet, and hurrying off round the other side of the Impala.

John was standing a few meters away, just staring at him, not moving, saying nothing.

Dean ignored him. His whole being was focused on keeping it together. He had so had questions. He felt confused. Why weren't the wounds healing? Why did he feel so exhausted? He was scared. He didn't understand.