AAAAAARGH! I blame The Denizens for this, the people who, after I wrote 'Monkey Business', kept wanting to know what would happen if THIS person from the Supernatural Jimiverse met THAT person from the Discworld. I'm supposed to be working on 'Grumpy Old Men', but the bunny went quiet, so this little bastard hopped in, pushed it out of the way, and began to nibble on my keyboard! (Maybe that's why my laptop has recently shat itself...)

There could be a number of chapters with a number of encounters - I'll see how noisy the damned bunny is.

DISCLAIMER: None of it is mine, I just squirt them with whipped cream, let the fans in, and watch the fun.

TITLE: Supernatural Disc-Overies

RATING: T. For rude words. It's that, or sew Dean's mouth shut.

BLAME: Lies ENTIRELY with the people who continue to feed by review habit, and breed plot bunnies and send them to me. Probably through L-space. I blame you all.

Count To Ten

Count to ten, Sam Vimes chanted to himself, Count to ten, when you find you're getting angry enough to put a fist through the nearest troll, count to ten. It was a little trick that Lu-Tze the Sweeper had suggested to him; You should try counting to ten, Commander Vimes, the irritatingly cheerful and optimistic little saffron-clad bugger had said on one of his visits to Ankh-Morpork, Count to ten, and by the time you get to ten, the urge to punch some smartarse's face right out the other side of his head will have subsided. Or at least, it will have shrunk to the urge to slap him until he cries...

So, Sam Vimes counted to ten – again – although his hand itched to wipe the smirk right off that face, which although bruised was at once too pretty and too old and knowing for the body below it.

"So, Mr... what did you say your name was?" he asked. One, two...

"I didn't," the strangely-dressed man before him replied without missing a beat. Vimes took a small vicious pleasure in watching the stranger hiss in discomfort as Igor attended to what had been diagnosed as a broken wrist; Sam knew from experience that the strange green salve, whilst effective, was disconcerting. It felt as though the bones were wiggling about as they sought to reunite themselves, like the ends of a worm chopped in half by a careless spade looking for each other and yelling "What the hells just happened? Where did you go? Oh, look at that, it'll take a week for that periosteum to knit properly again, how embarrassing..."

"No, so you didn't," Vimes nodded... three, four, five... "You didn't introduce yourself at all, which is going to make writing up your charge sheet a bit awkward – Corporal Pessimal, bless him, is very keen on keeping the paperwork in order. And it's going to be such an interesting charge sheet – breaking and entering, resisting arrest, assaulting an officer, acquiring actual bodily harm whilst assaulting an officer..."

"That's a crime?" the younger man snorted in disbelief, then winced again, "I broke my hand!"

"We had to do something, Sergeant Detritus was getting a bit funny about it," Vimes told him dismissively. "His Lordship was very understanding about it."

"By rightth, taking a thwing at Captain Carrot should be conthidered a thign of mental incapathity," contributed Igor, "Thith man may not actually be of thound, mind, Mithter Vimeth."

"The big dude? The ginger?" The stranger smirked again. "He's not that much bigger than my baby brother, and I can whup his fluffy butt any day of the week. Your guy has a better haircut, though, I give him that." He cocked an eyebrow. "I don't suppose I could get an introduction to your other sergeant, the blonde? She's got a killer smile."

"You don't know the half of it, son," grinned Vimes nastily, thinking that introducing this... person to Angua would be so entertaining that it was bound to be against the rules somehow. Igor had already treated the burn from the stranger's heavy silver ring, and Cheery was explaining to her that she should probably take the proposition as a compliment, rather than a cue to tear the bastard's throat out.

The strange man sighed wistfully. "But she's spoken for, isn't she?" he said mournfully, "I'd put money on it. She's got that pair-bonded vibe. It's a shame, really, because she's a damned site prettier than the other female werewolf I cross paths with from time to time, in comparison your sergeant look like a champion show dog..."

Oh, you smug little shit, so casually letting me know that you know... Six... seven... eight... Vimes wondered just how annoyed the Patrician would be if he just pulled out his sword and ran this bastard through. Or did actually formally introduce him to Angua. Preferably in 'plain clothes'. Nine, nine-and-a-half...

"Now, where was I? Oh yes, your impending award for Most Interesting Charge Sheet Of The Week. Such a pity we don't have a name to put on the trophy. It includes the little matter of murder, and then, there's... this."

Gingerly, he hefted the strange item the strange man had been carrying, amongst his other weapons. It was small, small enough to be held in one hand, clearly of fine workmanship, with mother of pearl inlays. He'd never seen the like of it, but it was clearly a gonne.

A deceptively pretty deadly weapon. Much like its owner, his instincts told him.

His first impulse had been to throw it into the river. The hand-held gonne, that is. Well, he'd also like to do that with its owner, too, if he was honest, but the insufferable smartarse would most likely just walk ashore, and he had to sort out what the hell this... stranger was doing here...

"Be careful with that, it's loaded," the infuriatingly pretty face smirked again.

Nine-and-three-quarters, ten. Can I slap him now?...

"You dare bring this into my city!" Vimes hissed angrily, getting into the young thug's space. He had to admit himself grudgingly impressed when the smirk barely faltered, and he didn't move. Fine, sonny, so you've dealt with The Law before. Well, so have I, sunshine, from both sides. "I could have you summarily hanged just for this, and Vetinari would give me a medal for Quick Thinking In The Face Of Insufferable Smartarsery!"

"Hey, it's just a gun!" protested the subject of his wrath, "It's just..." understanding dawned on the bruised face. "You don't have them, do you?" he said slowly, as if he was talking to himself. "You don't have them. Firearms. You're all carrying swords." He suddenly looked thoughtful, then gave Commander Vimes a long, appraising look. "Let me show you how to unload it," he added, holding out his hand.

"Where are you from?" Vimes demanded. "Where the hells did you spring from, and what the hells are you doing here, mister?"

"Winchester," the stranger added. "Dean Winchester."

"A funny name to go with your funny clothes," observed Vimes humourlessly. "So, what are you doing here, Mr Dean Winchester? Besides making my life difficult?" He paused, and tried to wipe the snarl off his face. "I have bodies, Mr Winchester. Besides the one I'm currently occupying. I have dead bodies. Well, a dead body, and a dead undead body. An undead body that is no longer undead. A dead vampire, to be exact, isn't that correct, Igor?"

"Well, technically, I believe tho, yeth," Igor pointed out, "But my initial curthory exthamination thuggethth that it'th not one of ourth."

"Not one of ourth? Er, ours?" Vimes pressed him.

"It's a vampire, Jim, but not as you know it," Winchester supplied.

"Shut up, you. Igor?"

"He hath ethentially nailed it, thir," Igor went on. "It'th definitely a vampire, but not ath we know them. The fangth, for a thtart. A mouthful of them, not jutht the feeding canineth. And, of courthe, he'th thtill there, not crumbled to dutht. I thuthpect there will be other anatomical anomalieth – the retht of the corpthe appearth thtrangely human – but I will not be able to thay for sure until I've completed an autopthy. I had other prioritieth. The dead can wait, thir."

"Indeed." Vimes stared hard at Winchester. "The living take precedence over the dead. And Millie Twizzle was living, for a little while, after you appeared. Well, until you and your vampire-who's-not-one-of-ours appeared, and tried to tear out her throat." Vimes ran a hand over his face. Carrot had already volunteered to go and tell the girl's family. "Igor gave it the old University try, Mr Winchester, but he is not a miracle worker."

"I did my betht, thir," Igor murmured mournfully, "But the young lady had lotht too much blood."

"Just so," noded Vimes. "And so, I have a body, Mr Winchester, and a dead undead dead body that is decidedly undustlike, with its head cut off, because you decapitated it with the biggest gardening knife I have ever seen..."

"It's called a machete," supplied Dean absently, eyes looking at nothing.

"I don't care if you call it Rupert, or Meredith, or even late for dinner," snapped Vimes, "The point is, I have a dead girl, and the anti-Undeadist troublemakers who don't give a damn about Millie will want to use it to power their next hate campaign, and I have a... non-viable vampire, who's been murdered on my watch, ha, if you can even murder one of the bloodsuckers, who's not even one of ours according to Igor, and the Black Ribboners will be howling about that, despite the fact that this leech definitely was not one of theirs, either, and the Patrician will cock an eyebrow at me, and tell me how important it is that we maintain civil relations between diverse ethnic urban communities, or some other such impenetrable admin-speak, then he'll cock the other eyebrow, Mr Winchester, the other eyebrow, and remind me that it's vital to maintain a good working relationship with Uberwald, and he'll use terms like 'balance of trade' and 'diplomatic emissions', which I believe is just another way of saying that all politicians are full of hot air, which may be emitted from either end of them, if you ask me..."

"I'm sorry," Dean whispered, "I'm sorry about Millie."

"Yes, well, aren't we all, it's going to..." Vimes stuttered to a halt, staring at the strangely dressed, strangely armed, strangely speaking man before him.

All the front and swagger had gone out of Dean Winchester. Sam Vimes recognised the slumped posture, the defeated air, and the expression of despair at once. He should do, he'd felt it often enough himself.

Guilt. A sense of failure, and crushing guilt.

"I'm sorry," Dean said again, still staring at nothing. "I didn't know. I thought I was right behind him. I... I should've been quicker. She... did she have family? Has somebody gone to tell them?"

Vimes gaped at the change before him, the wind that had been powering him effortlessly across Lake Outrage suddenly sucked out of his sails.

"Um, yes," he replied, in a more measured tone. "Captain Ironfoundersson is on his way."

"That's good," Dean smiled a small, crushed smile. "I bet he's good at it. I bet he knows just what to say." He looked down at his hands. I never do, hung the unspoken comment in the air.

Giving Igor The Look indicating that he should excuthe himthelf, Vimes slid into the chair opposite Dean with a deep sigh. "Mr Winchester... Dean," he began, "What can you tell me about what happened tonight? I have to explain this to the Patrician. My boss," he explained, when he saw the look of incomprehension. "The man who runs this city. Well, I say man, he could well be a weasel standing on a friend's shoulders and wearing a robe. You really aren't from around here, are you?"

"No, no, I'm not," Dean grinned ever so briefly. "Definitely not."

"Well, let's start with what you are doing here," the Commander suggested. "You were heavily armed. And carrying a gonne. They're not just illegal here, they're... wrong."

"They're my tools of the trade," Dean told him simply. "I'm here Hunting, Commander Vimes. I'm a Hunter."

"And what do you Hunt, then?" asked Vimes, his copper's senses warning him that he was about to hear something that was going to throw a spanner in the works, a cat amongst the pigeons, a wolf amongst the sheep, and Corporal Pessimal into a dither about which was the correct form to fill in.

Dean looked him in the eye. "Vampires," he answered. "Vampires, and zombies, and ghouls, and any evil unnatural asshole who tries to hurt a human." His smile turned briefly, dangerously, feral. "If your Sergeant Angua showed her face on my turf, on my watch, and did so much as look sideways, I'd fill her so full of silver she'd be a tea strainer fit for the Queen of England." He looked down again. "Mostly, I get there in time."

Vimes gave him another searching look. "So, if you're here, now," he said slowly, "Where's there?"

Winchester scrubbed a hand over his face. "It's... complicated," he said tiredly.

"I am very good with 'complicated', Mr Winchester," Vimes told him smartly. "Only last week, I was called upon to explain to Corporal Pessimal the arrangements in place for remuneration of individuals after the pilfering of biscuits from the mess room reaches a certain critical level."

Dean looked confused. "There's a threshold of cookie theft before you do anything?" he queried.

"Well, up to a point, we just grab Corporal Nobbs and shake him upside down until enough for a new packet of Mrs Biddlestaff's Lemon Yoyos falls out," Vimes explained dismissively.

Winchester smiled wryly. "You might be better off asking the monkey dude, the Librarian," he said, "He's friends with the guy who's practically my father. They know about how it works. Anyway, that bloodsucking freak was..."

"Word to the wise, lad," Sam broke in, "Something tells me you can look after yourself in a fair fight, or possibly even in an unfair one, but the Librarian is an ape, and sensitive about it. I doubt that even you could defend yourself if three hundred pounds landed on your shoulders and decided to twist your head off."

The ghost of a smile that would make even one of Mrs Palm's most experienced Seamstresses swoon appeared on the too tired, too pretty, too old face. "Thanks for the heads up. Anyway, that asshole was a 120-year-old librarian. I'd been tracking him for a fortnight. He's been killing across the country, for fuck knows how long. My brother and I cornered him, but he went into this room full of books, and, it's difficult to describe, but the shelves went... weird..."

"L-space," nodded Vimes grimly, trying to decide whether this man was brave or suicidal to follow a senior librarian into it. "It's only marginally less dangerous than the Dungeon Dimensions, so I'm told. Some of the faculty will tell you it's more so."

"I had to," stated Dean with a shrug. "I couldn't let him go. Wherever he went, he'd just keep killing..." he stared down at his hands again.

There was a discreet tap at the door, and Igor came in with barely chipped and almost-clean mugs full of the vile brew from the urn in the mess that was laughingly called 'coffee'.

"I took the liberty of bringing two of Mthrth Biddlethaff'th bithcuiths, thir," he explained.

"Oh, Jammy Jimmys," smiled Vimes, "Spared no expenth, er, expense, I see."

"Yeth, thir. Thergeant Detrituth wath motht aththiduouth in hith corporal shaking."

Winchester nodded his thanks, and took a long gulp of the ghastly sludge with evident satisfaction. That just confirmed for Vimes that he was not dealing with a run-of-the-mill civilian.

"Well, you got your, er, I was going to say man," began Vimes.

"We use the term 'fugly' a lot," offered Winchester.

Sam couldn't help but snort in amusement; he'd have to remember that one. "Well, you got your fugly, Mr Winchester. But unfortunately, it's now my fugly, too. And corpses that aren't officially assassinated require explanation. I'd be much obliged if you'd accompany me to explain this to His Lordship. I expect his summons will arrive very soon. We can send someone to the University, ask for the Librarian to back your story up. He will, won't he?"

"Actually, I was kind of hoping I could talk to him about getting back... there. Home," Dean admitted sheepishly. "I didn't really think a lot about that at the time, but, er, Sam could probably do it, but I don't think I'm the librarian type..."

"Sam?" Vimes cocked an eyebrow of his own.

"My brother. The one who's nearly as big as your Captain Ironfoundersson? Carrot?" The strange man suddenly looked worried. "Seriously, he'll be going nuts wondering what the hell has happened to me."

"Well, we'll straighten this out as soon as we can, then," Vimes assured him. "Fortunately, Lord Vetinari is even better at 'complicated' than I have to be. Provided you promise him to go away and try very hard not to come back, I think he'll be remarkably understanding."

"Great," sighed Dean.

"Speaking of which," Vimes went on, "Three... two... one..."

There was a knock at the door that could only be described as sidling.

"Come in," Vimes called, as another watchman sidled into the room, "Right, right, tell the clerk that I and my... visitor will be along to meet His Lordship directly."

"Will do, Mr Vimes," replied the watchman, "It's amazing, how you do that mind-reading thing..."

"Call it a hunch. Oh, and send someone to the University to ask for the Librarian, will you?"

"Tell him I'm Sam's brother," Dean prompted. "They're acquainted. I never knew my brother could speak 'Ook', but life is full of little surprises."

"Indeed it is, Mr Winchester," sighed Vimes, as the watchman's arm sidled up to a salute, then he sidled back out of the room.

"So, you employ, er, apes in your police force - your Watch - as well?" asked Dean.

"No, that was Corporal Nobbs, he of the biscuit pilfering," explained Vimes. "He has a letter from His Lordship declaring that on balance of probabilities, he is human. Finish your coffee." He drained his own. "His Lordship doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"I guess I don't want an eyebrow cocked at me," Dean smiled.

"You don't. Believe me you don't. Come on." Vimes stood. "You can't save them all, son," he added quietly. "I've been in this job long enough to learn that."

"So have I," replied Dean, "But it doesn't ever get any easier."

"No, it doesn't." He headed for the door, motioning for Winchester to precede him, but hesitated. "You really hunt the undead where you come from?" he asked.

"The ones that hurt people," Dean nodded, that small feral smile making its way onto his face again. "You don't like 'em much, do you? Vampires."

"What I like or not doesn't come into it," huffed Vimes, in a remarkably Samesque manner, considering that he was S. Vimes rather than S. Winchester. "Not in these times of ethnic inclusion, tolerance, understanding and the embracing of diversity. Rocks, lawn ornaments, kibblemunchers, I got 'em all in my Watch. Even a damned bloodsucker, now."

Dean paused thoughtfully. "Maybe next time you take leave, you could consider a Hunting vacation."

"A Hunting vacation?" echoed Vimes, not understanding.

"Where I come from, we don't embrace vampires, we decapitate them," Dean grinned. "Maybe next time you're on leave, you should ask your Librarian to show you the way. Ask for Bobby Singer. He'll get in touch with me. I'll be your native guide. I'm sure we can roust out a nest or two for you to... embrace."

Sam Vimes smiled slowly, grateful that his instincts had steered him right on this man. "Maybe I'll do that sometime," he replied. "After you, Mr Winchester."

So, who's next? I was thinking that Bobby should visit Mustrum, for some fishing for Obstreperous Trout. And who would Crowley visit, I wonder?

Reviews are the Unexpected Winchester Inviting You Back To His Place To Decapitate Vampires In The Hunting Vacation Of Life!*

*If vampires aren't your thing, perhaps jelly babies instead.