Well, it's been a very long time since a plot bunny came hopping along to nibble on my keyboard, but completely out of the blue this little dear popped out of a kombucha jar. No idea what a plot bunny would be doing in one of my 'booch jars - fermenting, perhaps - but then, they are strange little creatures, so who knows what goes on in the brains of these loony little leporids.

Anyway, he/she/it (or we could use wiya, the non-specific third person pronoun from Cree, first brought to my attention by Leahelisabeth and very useful it is too) hasn't told me wiya's name yet, but did shyly dictate a single chapter, so we can try the usual tactic of putting it out there and seeing if the little bunny gets more confidence. Wiya may have taken inspiration from the Denizens of the Jimiverse (where most of my stories are set) who wanted to know what else was going on during the events of the story called 'Nine to Five'.

Perhaps we shall call this story...

NOT IN SOUTH DAKOTA ANY MORE

Rated T. Because this story may contain traces of Dean Winchester..

Dean and Sam Winchester are consummate professionals, two of the best Hunters ever to work for the Federal Office of Occult Control, Eradication and Redaction (aka FOOCER) – but when they appear to be victims of an elaborate prank, it's clear that these two Feds are not in South Dakota anymore. Can they learn to operate like Hunters of yore, living on their wits, a good hustle, petty graft, and the occasional RuPaul impersonation contest?


Chapter One

Dean woke up with his face stuck to upholstery.

This was not a new experience for him; he often spent hours on the job outside of official work time when he and his brother were on a case. He was known to pull overnighters in his office, using the battered but comfortable sofa to snatch a couple of hours of sleep when fatigue overtook him, while he waited for a search run of the archives to finish or for another Hunter on the other side of the country (and occasionally the other side of the world) to get back to him.

His boss was constantly on his case about it, complaining about unapproved overtime and WHS issues and something called 'work-life balance' and calling him 'idjit' repeatedly, but Bobby Singer had long since resigned himself to the fact that it was just how Dean Winchester operated; he was one of the best Hunters that the Federal Office of Occult Control, Eradication and Redaction had ever seen, and it was just in Dean's nature to go above and beyond the call of duty.

The memory that he was supposed to be on a day off popped into his head, and he let out a small sigh; he'd have to sneak out of the building unobserved before Bobby got in, or he'd get another earful. With a yawn, he opened his eyes, stretching his arms as he did so.

He let out a small yip of surprise when his arms hit something solid.

The 'something solid' turned out to be the door of his car. He wasn't on his office sofa in FOOCER's South Dakota office; he was lying on the front seat of his beloved Impala, and it was dark outside.

And he could hear snoring.

He'd spent enough time sharing motel rooms with his brother to recognize the gentle gnaaaaaaark coming from the back seat as Sam's. (Technically, FOOCER officers were entitled to a room each when they travelled to work a job, but the Winchesters took their work expense budgeting seriously; between Dean's talent for DIY and improvising, and Sam's skill with researching and data analysis - scary to the extent that he had been sent for official evaluation for suspected occult Talent, and received regular approaches from the Men of Letters to switch organisations - they had a reputation for being able to work even the most dangerous, complex and resource-intensive case on a shoestring, which endeared them to the bean counters but annoyed their colleagues who were constantly questioned on why they couldn't follow suit.)

He'd also spend enough time as a brother and a Hunter to be well versed in prank wars; he was generally acknowledged by his peers as the master in such matters, but every so often one of them would come up with a kamikaze scheme to take on the Prankmeister...

"Hey!" he sat up, reached over the seat and slapped Sam's leg. "Hey, wake up Princess! Where the fuck are we?"

"Gnmf?" Sam opened one eye, yawned extravagantly, then his eyes bugged as he realised that something was seriously out of whack. "Whra'? Huh?"

"It lives!" intoned Dean dramatically. "Seriously, Samantha, wake up, and answer the damned question! Where are we?"

"Where... Dean?" Sam sat up and looked around, perplexity writ large on his face. "What the... where are we?"

"I just asked you that!" snapped Dean.

"What... how should I know!" Sam snapped back, a Bitchface #7™ (You Can Be Impossibly Unreasonable Dean, You Know That?) gracing his features. "Obviously, we're in your car!"

"I know that," Dean rolled his eyes, "I can see that. What I want to know is, where are we, in the car?" Dawn was just breaking; he peered out into the dim light. "It sure as hell aint the FOOCER garage."

"How the fuck should I know?" Sam shot back. "Last thing I remember, I was at home, in my own bed – maybe a better question would be: Why are we in the car?" He paused, and his eyes narrowed. "You were at the office, weren't you? I checked that Jimi was in his bed, checked the wards, and you hadn't come home when I turned in. You were at the office. Out of hours. Again."

"Yeah," Dean replied defensively, "It aint a crime to put in overtime."

"According to Bobby, it is if it's not approved," Sam told him sternly, "Fuck, you know he pitches a fit when you do that – do you want us all to end up having to sit through another Work-Life Balance seminar? Do you want to go do more counselling with Fergus?" he added ominously, and just a touch maliciously.

"Yeah, yeah, mea maxima culpa," Dean scoffed dismissively, with a small shudder at the thought of having to go and talk to Dr McLeod, the most appallingly compassionate counsellor ever to roam the corridors of employee well-being. "Right now, we got more important issues to deal with." His face darkened. "Ohhhhh, when I find out who did this, if they hurt my Baby, I will tear 'em a new one..."

"Dean," Sam's voice held clear tones of strained patience, "Who have you been pranking?"

"What? Nobody!" Dean replied.

"Well, you've annoyed somebody to the extent that they have put in the time and effort to contrive... this," he gestured vaguely, "You pissed somebody off, and they've moved me out of my bed, and you out of your office, and into the car, so you gotta have done something."

"It wasn't me!" Dean insisted, "Why are you here? What if it's you who's done the pissing off, huh?"

"It's not me," Sam's tone was even, "Because I am not the self-declared Prankmeister, determined to out-prank all-comers, whether they want to engage or not. Look, it was only a matter of time before they figured out that if they teamed up they could pull off something kind of spectacular..."

"It – wasn't – me!" Dean yelped in exasperation, "Look, I haven't pranked anybody! Well, no more than usual, anyway, certainly not enough to justify anybody doin' this – all I know is, I was waiting for a search to finish, and I thought maybe I could catch a bit of shut-eye on the sofa while I waited, I mean, Charlie's bots are good, but the archive is just so huge now, and some of it was gonna have to go through the Vatican's servers, and the next thing I know, I wake up in my car to the sound of you snoring!"

As he spoke, both brothers simultaneously realised something.

They could still hear snoring...

...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...

Sam would be the first to admit that he was confused; he woke up in his brother's car, with Dean protesting innocence. However, when his brother suddenly stopped mid-rant and drew his gun, he did the same as they exited the vehicle rapidly.

"What is it?" he hissed, not taking his eyes off the car.

"No idea," Dean replied grimly, likewise watching his car like a hawk, weapon drawing a bead on the door, "But whatever it is, it's big, if the noise is anything to go by..."

The Winchesters were Hunters – they had encountered many unexpected situations, and seen many unexpected things. The monsters they encountered could be cunning, fast, powerful, camouflaged, or a combination of all four, so they were ready for just about anything to bust its way out of the car and come at them slavering.

What they were not expecting was a large Rottweiler to stroll right through the driver's side door as if it wasn't even there, yawn widely, stretch languorously, shake thoroughly, then give them a happy good morning whuff.

...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...

"Okaaaaay, so, He aint a skinwalker," announced Dean, putting his silver blade away. "He aint a were-anything, he aint a shapeshifter, he's, uh, he's a dog." He checked the tag on the animal's collar. "A dog named Jimi."

"Yeah?" Sam chuckled in spite of himself. "That's a coincidence. He's a lot bigger than our Jimi – it'd take five or six Beagles to make one of this guy." He frowned in thought as he examined the animal's collar. "Look at these tags and charms – he's not just any dog, he belongs to somebody who's familiar with our line of work. In fact, if I didn't know better, I'd say his tags are identical to Jimi's. Our Jimi, I mean, Beagle-Jimi."

"You think he's a Hunter's dog?" Dean blinked. "Like, a working dog, Hunts alongside his Hunter? He's got the size, that's for sure. He's one big-ass dog. What's he doin' in my car?"

Sam turned a scowl on his brother. "Dean, I don't know what I was doing in your car," he said, "Let alone what a damned huge dog was doing there. A better question might be, how the hell did he walk right through the frigging door like it was made of smoke?"

"Maybe he's a Wildhunt dog," theorised Dean, "Aint they supposed to be descended from a Hellhound?"

"Wildhunt breeds German Shepherds," Sam clarified, "And that's just an urban legend about the origin of the kennel; they've had the occasional throwback puppy who looks pretty diabolical, though. Kevin in R&D has some ideas about how to set up a test to determine whether it's true or not, but Bobby won't let anybody try to get close enough to a Hellhound to get a positive control sample. Anyway, this guy's a Rottie. Maybe from the Schwartzhund kennel, but he doesn't have any tattoos." The dog Jimi lolled his tongue as Sam examined his ears, shamelessly soliciting more pats. "He sure is friendly though."

"Yeah, it could've been a lot worse," Dean shrugged, patting the dog as it transferred attention to him, a doggy smile on the big earnest face as it pestered him for more ear ruffling. "It could have been something much nastier. Fucked if I know how he fit himself in the foot well like that, he's huge, aint ya, fella? Although I gotta admit, I'm kinda concerned about how a big-ass dog ended up in my Baby."

"Dean." Crisis averted, Sam's voice was now dangerously calm as he moved on to what he clearly considered to be more pressing business. "I'm not so concerned about the fact that there was a big-ass dog sleeping in your car. I'm more concerned about the fact that we were sleeping in your car." He looked around as he took out his phone. "Your car, last known location the FOOCER secure parking, which is now in the middle of a decidedly public parking lot."

"And we got Jimi here," Dean reminded him, "Jimi the big-ass dog."

"Yeah, and Jimi the big-ass dog, wherever the fuck he came from." He paused, apparently deep in thought. "If it's a prank, it's pretty damned elaborate, and, if I'm honest, ballsy – roofieing a couple of workmates, who are Hunters, and driving hours through the night to leave 'em in another state, well, it's suicidal, is what it is."

"Damned straight," Dean growled, "I find out that anybody drove my Baby without askin', I will personally tear 'em a new one, and I will smile while I do it."

"I mean professionally," Sam rolled his eyes, "A stunt like this will mean that the perpetrators will definitely face a disciplinary hearing, and be dismissed. There may be criminal charges. And as annoying as you are, I don't think anybody we work with would want to get back at the Prankmeister so badly that they'd be prepared to destroy their careers, acquire a criminal record, and serve a prison sentence."

"And why add in a big-ass dog?" added Dean.

"Yeah, that to," Sam conceded. "No, this is this is way beyond the pay grade of anybody we work with looking to dish out pranking revenge; this smacks of fugly payback. I'm gonna call Bobby."

"Don't do that!" Dean yelped.

"We have to," Sam scowled, "Because this is some seriously weird shit happening here, and it could be dangerous."

"Well, we'll, you know, figure it out, and deal with it," Dean stated, "We're Hunters, Sam, we deal with weird shit for a living. Weird shit is what we get paid to do."

"The point is, Dean, that weird shit has happened directly to us!"

"You can't call Bobby!" Dean practically wailed.

"Why not?" demanded Sam.

"Because he'll call us idjits, and want to know what I've been up to!"

"Dean, I want to know what you've been up to!" Sam shot back. "And we are going to start with exactly what you were doing last night, when you were at work when you shouldn't have been, doing fuck knows what that you probably shouldn't have been. You've got a day off, but I'm supposed to be in the office in... crap, two hours, and I don't even know where we are!"

"Are you suggesting that I, what, accidentally zapped us away from work and home to here."

Sam gave his brother a look that was somewhere between amusement and pity. "Dean, that would be like suggesting that a kindergartener playing around with his big brother's Lego accidentally built a nuclear pile and started a cold fusion reaction. But I'm wondering if something you did initiated a cascade. The first long brick on the bottom row, so to speak."

"Well, if somebody's moved us and the car out here, can you just, you know," Dean waved a hand vaguely, "Just, kind, of zap us right back there? I mean, you're good with the spellcraft, bro, you're scary smart with that side of the business, Bobby's always sayin' he wishes you'd get into the R&D lab with Kevin, and the Men O' Letters keep sniffin' around..."

He wilted into silence under the withering look from his little brother. "Okay, first of all, I want to stay operational, I've been clear about that for years now," Sam growled, "And you know enough about the Craft to know that a translocation is high level – and that's just with inanimate objects! Fuck, you gotta be an established Level Five before you can even try line-of-sight with a penny, and demonstrably at least capable of working at Level Six before they'll even let you try with the sandwich, and..."

"The sandwich?" Dean looked confused. "Seriously? You practise on a sandwich?"

Sam sighed. "It's tradition. You know what the Craft is like, there's at least as much tradition as systematic application, that's just bound up in the whole way that spellcraft works. The first time you try a translocation on something organic, you try it with a sandwich."

"Sounds like a criminal waste of a sandwich," muttered Dean, never one to tolerate needles cruelty to delicious foodstuffs.

"Yeah, usually it is," agreed Sam, "That's the point – it's difficult enough with inorganic matter. It's diabolically difficult with organic matter..."

"Can Bobby do the sandwich?"

"What?"

"Can Bobby do the sandwich? Can Bobby move a sandwich?" Sam's expression became shuttered. "What?"

"Dean, you know that practitioners don't talk shop outside of, well, shop, so to speak, so unless you get your shit together and get at least Level One accreditation..."

"Come on, Sam," wheedled Dean, "I just wanna know if Bobby can do the sandwich!"

Sam gave him a serious look. "You can't talk about this to anybody."

"Absolutely not," Dean replied, with an equally serious mien, indicating that he wouldn't tell another soul without instructing them not to tell another soul.

"Well, okay, yeah, Bobby can do the sandwich." Sam paused. "Occasionally he does the sandwich when he's in his office, if he's busy and doesn't want to interrupt what he's doing to go get something to eat. The staff in the canteen just put it on his tab."

"What about other stuff?"

"What?"

"Other stuff? Like, if you weren't in the mood for a sandwich, if you thought, oh, I could really eat a doughnut now, could you do that?"

"Well, yeah," Sam shrugged. "It's starting off learning with a food item that's the tradition. The Brits use a sandwich, like us, it's where we get it from. So does Canada. Except for Quebec, they use cretons on toast. In Japan, it's a piece of narezushi, in France it's a cheese pastry, in subSaharan Africa it's a roasted tuber wrapped in biltong, in the middle East it's a piece of baklava, in Australia it's a small meat pie..."

Dean's face lit up. "You can do it with pie?"

"The point is, a food item is a small non-sentient chunk of organic matter, which is waaaaaay more complicated than inorganics. And when it goes wrong, and anybody's first attempt always goes wrong, the results are harmlessly hilarious. Especially if there's custard involved. And as for an actual living breathing animal of any sort, over any distance, without line of sight, well, there's only one documented case of anybody actually pulling it off in front of reliable qualified witnesses, decades ago, a white witch in Queensland, Australia, she did it to save a puppy who fell down a flooded derelict mine shaft and got injured, and nobody knows how she did it!"

"Why doesn't somebody just ask her?" Dean queried with genuine curiosity.

"Because she's dead," Sam snapped, in a tone indicating that the entire topic was officially closed for the season, "So, no, Dean, I can't just 'kind of zap us back there'." He looked around: the sun was rising, bringing their surroundings into clearer view. "Anyway, first of all I'd have to know where 'here' is."

"Well, do that," Dean gestured imperiously, whilst patting the dog with the other hand as Jimi-the-big-ass-dog-who-wasn't-their-Beagle leaned into the attention happily, "Figure out where we are."

"Okaaaaaaay... we're in Helena, in Montana," Sam supplied promptly.

Dean stared at him. "That's kind of scary, bro. You sure you weren't sandbaggin' in your Talent evaluation?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Sam huffed, "It has nothing to do with Talent, and everything to do with that sign over there. The sign for the Holter Museum of Art." He paused. "Announcing their Disney retrospective exhibition."

"Disney?" Dean smiled. "Oh, man, have we got time to drop in, you know I always wanted to go to Disneyland when we were kids, and then, well, we've just never gotten around to it, there's always something else to be Hunted, somebody else to be saved, hey maybe they'll be sellin' the Mickey ears, and..."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, you jerk..." Sam huffed, and glowered at his brother. "Look, all I'm saying is... I've got a kind of... weird feeling about this."

Dean's demeanour immediately became serious; despite the official verdict, his little brother had a knack of identifying occultly charged items or situations. "Sam, are you bein' absolutely and completely straight with me that you weren't you sandbaggin'?"

"No!" Sam snapped, "Look, I don't have a Talent that I'd be able to train up to anything maybe, and it's a big maybe, worthwhile, without dropping Hunting altogether, and concentrating on that full time, okay? I've been clear about that. It's just... I really think we should contact Bobby, and tell him everything." He sighed. "At least, I'll be able to explain why I'm gonna miss this morning's meeting."

As he spoke, Dean's stomach let out a long, gurgling rumble.

"Well, at least we don't have to miss this morning's breakfast," shrugged Dean, turning back to the car. "A crisis is better dealt with on a full stomach, that's what Bobby says."

"What about sudden onset acute appendicitis? Or, in fact, any crisis involving a serious injury requiring the administration of a general anaesthetic for treatment? A full stomach would be a liability, then."

"Fine, bitch, when you call Bobby you can tell him he's wrong. Get in."


Gasp! It's the Winchesters, Jim, but not as we know them. Professional Hunters? What on earth are they doing here? What is this plot bunny up to? And what is wiya's name? John Edgar, maybe, but perhaps a reader will figure it out. Feed wiya nice juicy reviews to encourage further dictation!