(A/N: Yet another incomplete fic on the go! Ha ha! For those getting this alert on account of following my Supernatural fic, by no means does this mean I have abandoned it (nor have I abandoned my latest LOTR fic) but I'm currently making rewrites to both those fics' newest updates and hope to have the SPN one updated at some point over the weekend and the LOTR one during the week. I've been sick this past week, however, and have watched Inglorious Basterds about sixty million times over the course of said week and all it's done is reminded me of how gorgeous Til Schweiger is and how amazingly hot Stiglitz is…you know, cause I enjoy a good psychotic every now and then :P.

I've had a plot bunny floating around in my head the entire week. Actually I've had a plot bunny in my head since the movie came out because good looking men inspire me :P but I'd loath not doing justice to Tarantino's work and / or characters so I've sat on it until now but if I don't get it out of my head soon I may have to blow myself away to get a little peace.

It will be a Stiglitz / OC fic so if that bothers you I am sorry. Obviously I'm going to try and keep it in cannon as much as possible and I don't think a fluffy lovely overly syrupy fic would fit at all but there will be smut…oh there will be lots of glorious smut so hopefully the promise of smut balances out any non cannon / out of characterness and / or any Sue tendencies.

Tarantino unfortunately owns The Basterds, other wise Stiglitz and The Bear Jew, and also Wicki would be in my possession at all times and wouldn't be in the position to be killing any Nazis :P

I obviously own my OC but she doesn't make an appearance until the next chapter ;) )

Prologue:

Everything had gone tits up, that much was for sure. Together they were quite undeniably pretty damn good at what they did, but as word of their existence in occupied France grew, the less likely it was they could continue their work of cutting a swath through Nazi forces without the unpleasantness of being ambushed themselves, or walking into a trap. Given the ratio of Nazi forces to their own ranks, luck had been on their side for a surprisingly generous time, a credit and a credit of the highest sort to their collective strategy, execution, and presence in the French countryside. That being said, on one particular day, said luck dropped it's favor in the blink of an eye.

The fact that they had been ambushed was insult enough, though logically speaking, there was no shame in having the jump pulled on them, war was war and sneak attacks were sneak attacks, neither side was ever going to be able to keep their guard up with every passing hour of every day. What was annoying about the whole ordeal was more so the fact hat they had been ambushed on what had otherwise shaped up to be a pretty satisfactory and productive day. The had gotten the jump on the first band of Nazi's they had run into, dispatched them and taken Lt. Raine's share of scalps. Donowitz had gotten his ya ya's out and beaten Sergeant Werner what's his face to a bloody pulp, and they had put the fear of god into a chicken shit Nazi private; made him squeal like a pig of the whereabouts of the next group of forces hiding out in the country, marked him up and sent him on his way to spread word of just how seriously The Basterds meant business.

It was after the second attack that everything had gone downhill. Expecting the unexpected was always the best and sure plan to follow, when the road progressed and signs of a populated country side became as sparse as the irrigation ditches, orchards, and wine groves that would have provided excellent cover for both The Basterds and Nazi's alike, the unexpected (in this case, a third band of German soldiers) became more and more likely to be impossible. Given the numbers they had already taken down in the two parties they'd decimated, a third squad stationed way out in the middle of nowhere seemed as likely as it was practical; the assumption that they would be able to traipse across road and trail un troubled and alone would lead them to the need to learn from their mistake at the very least.

Not too far from their pre-established safe house, just around the bend of a somewhat heavily bushed dirt road at the foot of a bridge they met their ambush. Rounding a corner they came face to face with a half a dozen or so equally as unsuspecting, yet advantageous Germans. The mild jolt of shock lasted little more than a split second before reactionary reflex kicked in for both sides, and luckily for them even being caught off the draw The Bastards emerged victorious though, not without their fair share of casualty.

The Nazi's were easy enough to get rid of, as they usually were; numbers what they were, the skirmish was a pretty fair match. But in the crossfire and the struggle, regrettably enough, for the first time in a good while Aldo's team of Nazi hunters took beating. Wicki took the worst of the brunt but still had nasty scrape or two from the scuffle and had taken a hit of buckshot or a ricochet slug in the shoulder but it only clipped him enough to leave a nasty flesh wound; nothing that needed any major attention. Stiglitz and Donowitz on the other hand had taken direct hits; Donowitz in the shoulder, and Stiglitz had been clipped twice in the same arm.

Both needed attention though, their only real option was to slip back to the cover of their covert safe house and do the best they could themselves. Getting to, or let alone finding a medic in ass crack nowhere France would be a challenge enough; even more challenging would be doing so without drawing any attention and unwanted suspicion. The distance between where they were then and their safe house was shorter than the distance into any towns near by anyways, not to mention dusk had already fallen; the last thing anyone wanted to do was go traipsing back toward an already Nazi overrun town in the dark of night not knowing if more were on their way to get a piece of the action; no doubt the newly branded private they had so graciously left alive had made it back somewhere and had at the very least given the word that The Basterds were in the area.

The safe house was a weathered and unkempt little cottage bordering on uninhabitable. Small and discreet enough, and standing perfectly square in the left most corner of a large parcel that most likely had been some sort of run down old dairy farm the occupants of which had either long since abandoned or were chased out; circumstances being what they were the latter was more likely the case.

It was a perfect safe house really, inconspicuous, tucked away out of sight enough, and far enough away from anyone who just might happen to come around, and certainly by the look of it no one would ever actually want to go in to stir up trouble; though it was sturdier than it seemed, the cottage looked like it was all of half a minute away from crumbling to the ground in a moldy, dusty pile of rubble. As long as they had holed up in the cottage there hadn't been an sort of trouble whatsoever; nonetheless they kept a night watch just to be on the safe side but until that point it had never really proven necessary.

It was the perfect safe house, that much was for sure; but on a night in which the unexpected was apparently the new order of the day, the security of their perfect safe house, by all appearances, had been breeched.