And so, the winner of 'The Jimiverse's Next Top Plot Bunny', is... Bunny #2!

*Bunny #2 hops forward, tearfully accepts the sash and tiara from the previous bunny that inspired 'Wolf Whistle', while Bunny #1 and Bunny #3 exchange air kisses with it, and smile with gritted teeth while imagining stabbling Bunny #2 over and over with a rusty fork and roasting it with carrots, onions and bacon pieces*

In order to try to encourage Bunny #2 to be more forthcoming, I have teased a first chapter out of it. No actual plot outlined yet, and it's always a gamble starting a story before you know exactly where it's going, but we shall see what transpires. I make no promises, but sometimes just getting started can encourage it to elaborate.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em, otherwise I'd have thrown That Gamble Woman to the Leviathans by now. Then sent them all back to Purgatory. Without any dinner.

WORKING TITLE: It Don't End With Blood.

RATING: T. Because, hello, Dean Winchester. Beautiful natural acts. Foul Mouth. Unseemly fascination with battery powered items.

SUMMARY: Every so often, Sam wonders what it would have been like if his family could've been closer to 'normal'. Whatever that is. Mom and Dad, maybe even seeing his big bro settle down with one woman. Even if it means 'not being trapped in the car with Dean recounting sexual conquests', that would be a start.

WHOSE FAULT IT IS: The blame lies entirely with the Denizens of the Jimiverse who keep encouraging me, and especially with those who voted for Bunny #2. *frowns* You know who you are, you reprobates.

Chapter One

"So, we got back to her place," Dean went on with relish – Sam could hear the leer on his face – "And she couldn't keep her hands off me, she was like a damned octopus or something..."

"Dean," Sam threw his brother a double strength Bitchface #6™ (I SO Do NOT Want To Hear The Gory Details Of One Of Your Sexual Conquests, Jerk), even though he knew Dean couldn't see him in the dim light, "So not interested, dude. And an octopus has tentacles with suckers, not hands."

"Yeah, suckers," his brother sniggered. "Anyway, she knew what she wanted and how to get it," Dean, sprawled on the front seat, carried on breezily, ignoring Sam's wishes as usual when it came to regaling his little brother with tales on the topic Chicks I Have Banged, "And I think she probably set a new world record for undressing the Living Sex God..."

"I really don't need this," Sam scowled, wiggling to try to get comfortable on the back seat of the Impala. They had run low on funds, and were between credit cards; it didn't happen often, but when it did, it left them living in the car on a diet of canned stew, Spaghettios, uncooked 2-minute noodles and baked beans. They were well accustomed to living in each other's pockets, but three days of cold sleet had made even brief escape from Dean's embroidered accounts – oh, God, Sam wanted to believe that they were embroidered, but feared that the Living Sex God was just relating an accurate account of his escapades – pretty much impossible.

"So, I like an assertive woman, don't get me wrong," Dean sailed on across Lake Libido, cheerily ignoring the cold front sweeping down from the heights of Mount Disapproval, "And I like 'em kinky, but I gotta admit, when this chick pulled out a kilt, I'm not kidding, she wanted me to wear a goddamned kilt, even I did a double take..."

"Dean, shut the hell up," moaned Sam. His iPod had gone flat earlier in the day, after his laptop had died, and he wouldn't be able to charge either of them again until the car was running, or they found somewhere with electricity. And a roof. A roof would be nice. One that was far enough up so he could stand. And a door. A door to put between himself and his brother. Yeah, a nice thick door, solid wood, or maybe steel. A nice concrete bunker, perhaps. And a bed. With a pillow. Not to sleep on, but to put over his brother's face.

"It turned out, she had this thing about Liam Neeson, and I'm way hotter than he is, so I thought, what the hell, and put this thing on, and you know, it's kinda comfortable, and it would make the whole concept of the quickie a lot easier, that is, if the Living Sex God did quickie, which he never does, he is a master of the slowie, obviously..."

"I hate you so much," Sam muttered, wiggling again, trying to stretch his legs and get the crick out of his neck. Just the earbuds alone wouldn't keep out the lecherous lecture. He'd tried.

"Hey, I haven't got to the really good bit yet!" Dean informed him happily. "Just when I think things are getting hot and horny, she leans over to the bedside table, and gets out this toy..."

"You are an agent of Satan, and I am this close to exorcising you, salting you, or shooting you," Sam warned.

"And I'm not kidding, it was a little battery powered Loch Ness Monster!"

"Right, that's it. Exorcisamus te, omnis satanica potestas..."

"Anyway, this thing, she turned it on, and... gah!" As Dean spoke, Sam sat up and sprinkled the week-old remains of a packet of potato chips over his big brother. Jimi, who had been snoozing in the shotgun foot well, suddenly sat up, whuffed in excitement, and began to snuffle up crumbs. "What the hell was that for?"

"It's the closest thing to salt that I had to hand," shrugged Sam. "It seems to have worked."

"Says you," humphed Dean. "Now, where was I? Oh, yeah, so she turned it on, and it glowed in the dark! It lit up! And it did this wiggling sort of thing, it actually kind of squirmed..."

"I'm so sorry, Dean," Sam sighed sadly, "I'll miss you, but I promise I'll take good care of Jimi and the car. Where do you want it? In the head? In the heart? No, if I really want to shut you up, I'll just shoot you in the ass, because not only is it where your keep your brain, it's what you're talking out of."

"Don't shoot me, Sammy," Dean gave his most infuriating grin, "I'll just get annoyed, then I'll come back and haunt you. Your laptop will always be freezing on porn sites. I'll follow you around and make girls' dresses blow up around their waists. I'll drag women to your room and frighten them into having sex with you, then I'll give you a mark out of ten, and a written critique."

"I'll salt and burn you," grumped Sam.

"It won't work," Dean informed him smugly, "You'll have to burn absolutely everything we own. Including your hairbrush. And I can't see you doing that."

Sam looked at his brother. "You used my hairbrush?"

"Not on me. On the dog." Jimi panted happily as he snuffled for chip crumbs. "But that means I touched it. Aieeee! Careful there, J-Man, mind the merchandise..."

"Oh, you are an asshole," Sam griped, lying back down on the seat. "Aren't we supposed to be trying to sleep?"

"I'm telling you a bedtime story," Dean insisted, "And I can't sleep with Jimi trying to perform a lewd act on me, thanks to you and your crumbs. Now, where was I? Oh yeah, the battery-powered Loch Ness Monster."

"Kill me now," moaned Sam, wiggling once more to try to get comfortable.

"Hey, are you squirming back there, baby bro?" Dean enquired. "You're not jerking off, are you? Because I know a man has needs, Sam, if you need to jerk off, I can totally understand how the exploits of the Living Sex God would do it for any guy, but don't you get anything on Baby's upholstery, bitch."

Sam sighed heavily. "We gotta find somewhere to stay, a warehouse, a squat, an unoccupied house, anything, so I can get away from you. Before I go completely fratricidal." He ran a hand through his hair. "Yerk. Somewhere with running water would be a bonus. I think I can smell myself."

"Awwww, poor Princess Samantha, she likes her creature comforts," intoned Dean. "How about we find somewhere with a spa bath, steam shower, wired in hair dryer and curling tongs? Plenty of running water out there." He gestured to the freezing rain that was pelting the car. "Or, I could just finish my awesome bedtime story. You used to love it when I told you bedtime stories."

"When I was a kid, and you were my awesome big brother reading to me from my favourite picture book, yeah, I did," agreed Sam. "Now I'm grown up, and you're a disgusting pervert who's a slave to his hormones and has no shame and reads the stories from the pages of his own erotic adventures, not so much."

"Well, think of it as educational," suggested Dean. "You might learn something. You need to get laid, Sam. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah, the Loch Ness Monster. The sex toy that time forgot..."

"Dean, I am warning you," rumbled Sam, "If you don't stop grossing me out right now, jerk, I will be forced to take drastic action."

Dean ignored him completely. "Yeah yeah, so shoot me. Or go sleep in the trunk. So, this thing lights up, and kind of wiggles, right, so we're in the middle of a beautiful natural act, with me wearing a kilt, and she gets this thing, and..."

Sam considered his options. Murder wasn't really viable: for a start, he'd be stuck in the car with Dean's corpse until the weather backed off enough for him to build a pyre, and he was pretty sure that his brother's restless ghost would just pick up the story exactly where it had paused briefly whilst his brains got splattered all over the dash. Physical violence was a possibility, although he'd then have to deal with a grumpy post-concussion Dean, which could be equally annoying. And, once again, he would probably just insist of picking up the story from where he was when Sam clocked him. He couldn't leave; it was getting dark, he had nowhere to go, and would be soaked by the freezing rain within a minute if he got out of the car.

He lifted one butt cheek, and broke wind with surprising volume, intensity, and musicality.

"Oh, shit!" barked Dean.

"No, I promise not to," replied Sam mildly, doing it again.

"Jesus, Francis!" Dean flapped a hand in front of his face, "Open a damned window!"

"Nope," Sam shook his head, "Not with that coming down outside. You open a window."

"Bitch," muttered Dean, making a gagging sound. "Oh, you are beyond putrid. Gaaah! How can you do that to me when I'm trapped in here with you?"

"That's funny," shrugged Sam, "I was just thinking the same thing about your story."

"That's not the same at all!" declared Dean. "I was trying to amuse you and lull you to sleep, not gas you to death! How the hell does that happen? Just how the hell does that happen? Food goes in one end, and the breath of Hell comes out the other!"

"It might be something to do with being the vessel of Lucifer," offered Sam. "A special demonic super power. You know how Heaven had its weapons? Maybe I was supposed to be one of Hells' nukes."

"That sounds horribly plausible," snarked Dean. "So you can just knock it off, right now."

"No can do, bro." pfwaaaaarp "I don't think the baked beans helped."

"Sam, you stop that! You stop that right now! Hold it in!"

"I can't do that. I might pop." fweeerrrrrrrrrpth

"Aaaaaargh! Oh, that is gross! I swear, you stop that, or I'll put a cork up your ass!"

"You do that, I'll shoot you with it." thrurururururururp

"Bitch," spat Dean, sitting up and starting the car, then reaching for the air con. "We are finding somewhere to stay. Anywhere where I can get away from you. Somewhere with a hermetically sealed pantry, so I can seal you in, and leave you there to dissolve in your own disgusting exhaust."

Grinning to himself, Sam climbed into the front seat. "Sounds like a plan."

Muttering to himself in a constant droning monologue complaining of being fumigated, Dean headed through the Montana town, pausing only when he spotted some parking ticket machines. When it became apparent that the purloined change would be enough to give him a stake to go hustling pool, he cheered up somewhat – or at least became less grumpy – as they headed for the outskirts of town, where a new housing estate offered refuge for the night in an empty house.

"Wow," said Sam, shrugging out of his wet jacket, "This is... nice."

"There's even a picket fence," huffed Dean in amusement, toeing off his boots. "Now, don't get water on the carpet, honey, and stay off the polished boards in those boots, we've got the Hendersons coming over from drinks, Trivial Pursuit and naked Twister tonight."

There were no furnishings, but the utilities were connected, which was an unexpected bit of luck ("Yes! Yes! Sammy, the main bathroom has a steam shower! I call first!"). Sam unrolled his sleeping bag, then spread out some wet clothes to dry in front of a radiator. While listening to Dean work his way through the first half of 'Ride The Lightning' in the master bathroom, he looked around the house.

It was nice. It was... a house. It was just an ordinary, achingly normal, house. There was a main bedroom, and secondary bedrooms. A small room that would make a perfect nursery, and what looked like a rumpus room. Maybe a husband would carry a wife across the threshold if they were feeling traditional, maybe christening the loungeroom floor in front of the fireplace...

He shook his head, smiling to himself. He'd been hanging around with Dean for too long. Somebody would move in here, and make this their home. This would be their home, and they'd have kids, raise a family here, and maybe, one day, the nursery would be turned into a sewing room, then the other bedrooms would be redecorated for when the grandchildren came to stay...

Sam had stopped playing the 'What If' game a long time ago. He'd tried normal; it hadn't worked out. He'd found that he liked it, though, if he could just ignore the ache of his missing big brother, his family.

But sometimes, just for a moment, he found himself wondering what it would have been like.

"Yeeeeeeeeee!"

The shriek from the bathroom broke him out of his reverie, and had him bursting through the door, gun in hand, Jimi at his heels. "Dean!" He couldn't see anything for the steam.

"It's okay, Sammy," a grinning head emerged from the cubicle, "I knocked the tap, and turned off the hot water. Man, that cold water is cold!"

"I thought you were being murdered," huffed Sam.

I thought I was being snap frozen," commented Dean. "You gotta try this, Sam, it's awesome! I'll be out in a minute."

As Dean once more gave voice to The Hetfield Within, Sam retreated to the lounge room where the sleeping bags were unrolled, and smiled wryly. Jimi curled up on his blanket and humphed contentedly, happy to be wherever his Alpha and Second were. At least tonight, they had a roof over their heads, even if it wasn't theirs.

"I'll take that change to a bank tomorrow, and find me a bar," Dean told him later as they prepared to turn in, "We'll be solvent again in no time. You can go to the library and nerd it up, see what you can find out about the disappearances."

"I haven't been able to come up with anything linking them so far," Sam commented, "Hopefully the library will have more stuff archived, they don't have a lot online."

"Well, you can do your thang, run that laptop red hot," Dean told said, "And keep an eye out for hot librarians." He looked thoughtful. "You better take that cork with you, just in case. If she asks about it, you can tell her it's for medical reasons."

"Good night Dean," Sam carefully avoided his brother's eyes, crawled into his sleeping bag, and turned off the flashlight he was using as a bedside lamp.

"Good night, Samantha," replied Dean, getting into his own sleeping bag and turning off his own flashlight.

There was a moment of silence, then the sound of Dean sniffing.

"What the...? Sam? Sam! You farted in my sleeping bag! Bitch!"

"Jerk," Sam grinned into the darkness, and rolled over.

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Clutching The Sex Toy Of Dubious Legality In The Steam Shower Of Life! (Srsly, reviews help the bunny overcome its shyness.)