Oh, for feck's sake, just when I thought I might get a bit of peace…

I have a lot to do. I am very busy. And just when I think the noise from the plot bunny pen might settle down for a bit, this utter, utter, utter bastard of a leporid pops up its head and dictates the start of a story. Just the start, mind you, nothing so useful as a plot… anyway, here in the Jimiverse, giving a reluctant plot bunny an airing can sometimes encourage it to be more forthcoming, so we'll give it a try. If only to get the little mongrel to shut up…

Disclaimer: I don't own the Winchesters, I just dress 'em up in the Velcro stripper outfits then push 'em out on stage.

Working Title: Old Dogs, Old Tricks

Rating: T. Until such time as Dean Winchester takes a vow of silence.

Summary: Dean is Not Happy. He doesn't mind weddings, provided they happen to other people, but this one he objects to. And Sam won't even let him kill a werewolf; instead, he has to be *polite* to it, and that's bad enough, but having to cooperate with a cranky werewolf to make sure the bride and groom's big day goes without a hitch is just beyond the pale… a story of the Jimiverse.

Blame: The fault for this plot bunny can be laid fairly and squarely on The Denizens of the Jimiverse, (they are depraved), in particular the evil klu. You are all just ghastly.

Chapter One

As he made his way noiselessly around the apparently derelict warehouse, he briefly caught sight of himself in a cracked sliver of a remaining pane of dirty, scuffed glass. Under other circumstances, he might've paused to make a satisfied observation:

Dean Winchester, you are one handsome sonofabitch.

He was, too. Not just a fine piece of manflesh, but as a Hunter who'd reached the big… *mumble-mumble* -zero, and was not just still alive but still Hunting, he was nothing short of a miracle.

An awesome, damned fine-looking miracle.

A touch of grey in his hair and a few laugh lines did little to dull the glory of the Living Sex God, and if he wasn't the horny young twenty-something he'd once been as he blazed his way across the country, leaving no bed unmussed and no female toes uncurled, he was pretty much just as horny, and with a lifetime of experience, even better at curling toes, in his extremely well-informed opinion, like a master craftsman who had spent decades honing his talent. If it was even possible for the L.S.G. to improve on perfection. At any rate, he could still make a bit of extra cash by writing stories from his experiences – with practically no embellishment for literary licence, thank you very much – for 'Hustler' under a number of pseudonyms. Not many guys who'd reached their…*mumble-mumble*th birthday could do that.

But absolutely none of that went through his mind; he was on a Hunt, and a Hunter who didn't have his head absolutely and totally in the game, in the moment, predator completely focussed on prey, would likely stop being a Hunter very quickly.

The word for a Hunter who couldn't concentrate on the job, to the exclusion of everything else, was 'corpse'.

At his side, he felt Rio butt at his leg, a snarl on her big usually soulful face, but no sound coming from her; a Hunter's dog, part-Hellhound at that, knew better than to let out a growl whilst stalking their quarry. The gentle red glowing of the animal's eyes in the fading light indicated that they were getting close.

Dean found a window that had enough glass knocked out for him to wiggle his way safely into the dull gloom of the building. He grinned ruefully as Rio just walked through the wall, and was grateful that he didn't have to boost a Rottweiler-sized dog, and a large one at that, through the window. His trick shoulder gave him enough grief in the cold weather as it was.

The floor showed signs of recent activity, tracks in the dust and grit, and bottles carelessly tossed away, leaving swathes of broken glass across the stained cement in an act of careless vandalism, or possibly a crude alarm system, or basic but very effective mantrap. Well, for an ordinary man, perhaps, but for Dean Winchester, Hunter extraordinaire, it was just one more minor obstacle – there was a reason that boots were his preferred footwear, and having learned as a teenager to sneak away from a girl's room out a window, down a trellis and across a gravel drive, broken glass was a no-brainer.

Rio, feet untroubled by something as inconsequential as glass shards, suddenly froze, eyes piercing the shadows where Dean lurked. He froze too, and listened hard: his eyes might need contacts these days, but there wasn't anything wrong with his hearing, or his Hunter's insticts.

There. A definite snuffle. The sound of somebody who was terrified, and trying to keep quiet, but failing, somebody who had seen something so horrifying that they were frightened beyond speech, and reduced to attempting to muffle small keening sounds of fear. Carefully, he peered around a door that hung off one hinge.

It was a crudely barred cell, but a cage nonetheless. Inside it were three people that he could see, teenagers from the look of them, two girls and a boy. It looked like his brother's research was on the money.

When Sam had identified a number of suspicious disappearances in Wyoming, and found that the intel suggested a nest of vampires that was not just active but 'recruiting', Dean's accelerator foot and machete hand had begun to itch. It had been a while since their last Hunt – they were fewer and further between anyway, what with both Winchesters being in their *mumble-mumble*s – but he'd decided that it was a job that would benefit from the attention of a couple of Hunters who had long experience with serious fuglies. Sam had rolled his eyes, and insisted that, given the number of bloodsuckers that could be involved by then, it would take more than the two of them, and Dean had eventually,grudgingly, agreed.

But of course, he'd insisted that he be the one to go in, and try to get the civilians out alive – he was Dean Winchester, after all.

Edging his way carefully around the door, he lifted a finger to his lips in the universal signal for quiet as the kids caught sight of him, and gasped. The girl who had been sniffling looked as if she was about to scream; he lowered his machete, and help up an empty hand. I'm here to help.

A couple of steps into the echoing space, he caught sight of the first of the vampires. They were sprawled, some in couples, some individually, on improvised furniture, some of them with bottles of liquor still within arm's reach. Leaving Rio to watch them, he made his way to the cage, and inspected the lock.

"I'm here to get you out," he breathed in a barely-there whisper, "Just stay quiet."

It was an old key lock, almost an insult to him, and he carefully eased it open, taking an agonisingly long time to uncoil the chain around the bars to avoid any clinking. "Okay," he went on, "You go out the way I came in. Slow, quiet. Follow my footprints out. Head for the double doors, somebody's unlockin' em from the outside by now. There's a guy there, looks like a real tall dishmop, go to him, and follow him, there's a black car…"

"What if they wake up?" the sniffling girl looked ready to burst into tears again.

"Then run like hell," he told them sternly, "And don't look back, just run, me and the dog'll hold 'em off. Go on. Stay quiet. Watch where you put your feet."

Clutching at each other, the teens made their way nervously across the floor. They got half way before their nerve gave out, and they broke into an stumbling, clumsy run. One of them clipped an empty bottle with a foot, sending it clanking across the floor.

There was movement amongst the prone forms in the gloom.

With frightened shrieks, the teens ran for it.

Dean swore under his breath as the vampires started to wake up, and look around. "What the fuck?" demanded one of them, stretching. "Oh, hey, what happened to dinner?"

One who had been around thirty when he was turned sat up, then lazily got to his feet, eyeing Dean like a cat watching an interesting mouse. "Somebody came and let it out," he observed, "Ladies and gentlemen, I do believe we have a Hunter."

Dean gave them a cocky salute with his machete.

"What's a Hunter?" asked a blonde woman petulantly, picking up a bottle and necking it before throwing the empty away.

"A type of insect," the apparent leader of the nest smiled, "A pest. Very annoying."

"I be dat asshole," agreed Dean brightly.

"Fortunately," the vampire went on, "They taste delicious." He smiled more widely, letting his feeding fangs descend. "Even old ones."

"Like wine," Dean added, "As we age, we just keep gettin' better. Except my brother, judgin' by the lemon-sucking bitchfaces he pulls, I'm pretty sure he's turned to vinegar by now…"

As the vampires edged uncertainly towards Dean, bemused by his complete lack of fear of them, Rio suddenly snarled, eyes glowing hotly red and hellteeth bristling like a Kodiak bear's dentition. The vampires checked in confusion.

"Hey, you don't think you're the only ones who can to the teeth thing, do you?" Den asked sunnily. Striking like a snake, he darted forward, and took the blonde woman's head off with a vicious swipe of his blade, then turned and ran for it.

He was never going to outrun them, he knew that, and so did they. There were at least a dozen of them, and as he dodged around the detritus cluttering the abandoned warehouse, he could hear them behind him, beside him, overtaking him, surrounding him…

By the time he got to the open space where the main doors had been cracked open, they were waiting for him, the leader grinning at him, fangs showing.

"Getting dumber as you get older, it looks like," he sneered, as the vampires formed a loose circle around Dean and Rio. "Did you really think you could outrun us?"

"Honestly, no," Dean shrugged, reaching down to pat Rio's head. "It's my knee, you see, I've damaged it a couple of times, and…"

"Are you taking any medication for it?" interrupted the head leech.

"Not at the moment," Dean replied, "I got some anti-inflammatories for if it gets real bad, but…"

"Good," the vampire smiled, "Because crap in your bloodstream might spoil my dinner."

Dean gave the crowd a slow, smouldering smile that made a couple of the female vampires wonder whether turning him rather than eating him might be more fun. "Oh, I aint your dinner, bloodsucker," he drawled cockily.

The head vampire smirked. "Really?" he chuckled, "Well, what would you call it?"

Dean's grin was truly predatory. "I'm the bait."

And all hell broke loose.

Le sigh. He doesn't change, does he? Send reviews, and we'll see if we can figure out where this little bunny is going.