Hi, we are Sleepwell and Silverfoxpunk and you are about to read our collaborative work. We both publish separately under our own names, so feel free to check those out.

Please be advised that this story explores the plot developed in Season Two, eps 13/14 and therefore contains some graphic depictions of werewolf-vampire brutality along with the development of mature (hot!) Slash in the second chapter. If this is not your thing, you should leave now—we'll see you at our next collaboration!

Enjoy, and don't forget to review...

Every Dog Has Its Day

Chapter 1: Hunter

He could never sleep after sex. Sex and human blood. Sex and blood combined with the rush of adrenaline from the fight made slumber impossible. He was restless. Tossing and turning was pointless. He was not going to drift off anytime soon. Getting up, he left Andi sleeping the sleep of the dead. Envied her. Her life was simple, all of her problems easily compelled away. He paced around the boarding house. Reliving the night's events was going to be all he was good for. Joy.

The fight with that pack of werewolves. How had it gone so wrong, so fast? One minute he and Stefan were controlling the massacre. Ripping hearts out. It felt good, good to stay sharp, good to see Stefan kill. But one lapse in concentration and then, bam! That she-bitch had shot him. Taking advantage of his momentary failing, that dog had been set to impale him.

And then to be rescued. By a warlock, no less. Sent packing. Rather 'tail-between-the-legs'ish. More fitting for the werewolves. Not the vampires who had been forced to leave the scene. Victorious. Yet, somehow not. It was beneath them. But Blondie was in no condition to fight. And that interfering warlock had made it pretty clear that the fight was over. For now.

Just pacing wasn't enough. The itch, the need for the kill consumed him, pricked at his flesh. Andi's blood snaked through his veins. He felt powerful. Wanted more fight. Wanted to finish what was started. He told himself that he should do this for his kind, for his brethren, but he wasn't kidding himself. He had no illusions about what was really going on. Each vampire out for himself. Leave the pack mentality to the hounds.

So for the blood, for the hunt, he now found himself in the woods. Drawn back to the trailer. That ridiculous RV. As cheap and low-rent as the dogs who owned it. He was itching to have another go at that insolent upstart of a werewolf. The one called 'Brady'. That mocking grin and portentous stare still etched in his brain. An image he couldn't shake. He clenched his fists. This would only be over when that mutt's eyes were wide with the shock that his heart was beating in a victorious vampire's hand.

He'd known that werewolves were strong. Hell, he'd observed the Lockwoods. But werewolves as a breed were proving to be no match for vampires if tonight was any indication. Unless there was a full moon. Then who knew how their strength would manifest itself? But, there had been no full moon tonight. So, how had those over grown canines managed to get the upper hand in the werewolf-vampire throw-down? It affronted his sense of what was right.

He was standing a short distance from the trailer. It was in darkness. The bodies of dead werewolves were still strewn everywhere. He could smell one. A live one. It was the female. In the trailer. Sleeping. He listened to her breathe. Tyler Lockwood's scent was still in the air. But faded. The kid must have gone. Good. The fledgling werewolf had made it obvious whose side he was on when he blew off Caroline. Bad move on Tyler's part. What had Blondie been doing with that pretentious low-life anyway? She'd had better taste, once. He'd have to have words.

A twig snapped somewhere behind him. The sound of a careful footfall misplaced. He spun around. Scanned the darkness. The odor of sweaty dog wafted through the still, cold air. Far enough away. Yet close enough to pursue. He wasn't sure how acute werewolves' hearing was. Probably pretty damn good. Because they were truly animals. Who hunted their prey through heightened senses. Like vampires. Only maybe better.

Either way. He moved cautiously. Swiftly. Fangs out. Tracking. The werewolf was also moving. Further back into the woods. Making less of an effort to be silent. He wondered briefly if he was being drawn into a trap. Maybe additional lycanthropes had been summoned and were waiting for him in the clearing. That could prove awkward. He ran through the list of options. Hell, there was only one. Kill everything that moved and be the last one standing.

But he would have heard and smelled other creatures. So there was just Brady. And the werewolf had come to a halt. He seemed to be waiting. Great. A late night fight. The best kind. One on one. Vampire on werewolf. He approached the still beast slowly. Carefully. Yellow eyes glinted back at him. Wary. Watchful.

"Out for walkies?" He forced his body to remain rigid, upright. He wouldn't stoop, not for this filth.

The dog's lip curled. "You and I have unfinished business. I'm surprised you had the nerve to show up and finish it. I thought I'd have to track you down."

He refused to rise to the bait. "I take it you thought leading me out here into the middle of nowhere would keep your bitch safe from me?" He chuckled, deep and throaty. Licked his lips. Lewd yet threatening suggestion. He was good at those.

The werewolf pounced, but he was ready. Their collision ripped through the silence. Tearing flesh, blinding anger, a single racing heart. He was stronger. But only slightly. The mutt was on his back, his shocked yet indignant face staring up at him.

Now he could laugh. Laugh before he plunged his hand into that impudent creature's chest and rip out his heart.

But there was nothing, nothing except searing pain. Then extraordinary weakness. He was on his knees, falling onto his side. Damp leaves pressed into his skin. Decaying, vegetative mould under his fingernails. How was this possible? He wasn't about to die. Not like this. Not in the mud. Not at the hands of this unworthy rival.

He struggled back to his knees, the beast above him, the little torture toy barely visible. Something small, wooden, vervain laced... The worst part of his defeat, the dog's hot breath on his face as he whispered his victory.

"Who's the bitch now?" Howling laughter. Darkness.

The repeated slapping would have been sure to do it, but the hunting knife plunged into his thigh was a good backup. He came around swallowing a scream.

Christ. He was alone with the very werewolf he had tracked to kill. And without the upper hand. Tied up. God knows where. The vervain making him feel sick. Groggy. This wasn't looking promising. Hell. Now, this would be a good time for one of Elijah's witchy minions to show up and pierce the mutt's ears. Hell, he'd even settle for Sabrina the nose-bleeding witch.

The dog laughed, sat back in his indoor garden chair and rocked a little. "Where are we?" God, he had to spit his own blood onto the ratty carpet. Undignified.

"I'm the one asking the questions here, bloodsucker." A wooden bullet shot straight through his shin. Shit, this was starting to become annoying. Not to mention painful. And, truth be told, he was actually starting to feel a touch anxious about where this was heading.

'Don't let him see it', he told himself sternly. 'Don't let him see you bite your own tongue to stop from shouting out.'

"I've had worse scratches during sex." That was good. The werewolf didn't like that. Didn't respond well to being made fun of. That meant he had a weakness, a useful character flaw. The man in the beast was quick to anger, easy to rile. He was very familiar with that human quality. He could work with it.

The werewolf reloaded his gun, but appeared to have limited ammo. He guessed the rest of it was in Caroline. He needed the man-beast to move closer, to make a connection. These chains chaffing at his wrists and ankles stopped him from using his body. Taunting was the only weapon he had. And he was going to use it.

"Want to hurt me, don't you? Want to stick more things in me? You know what they say about men with big stakes." He scoffed.

"Shut the fuck up!" The second bullet went right through his left kneecap. Shattering bone, blood spewing forth. Then despite himself, there was darkness again.

Coming to, healing. Bones knitting together at an accelerated rate. He had to make the pain his friend, embrace it. Keep it close. That had been too much, too fast. The dog's temper was too quick. He had to slow down. Licking his dry lips he began again.

"Spare a vamp a cup of blood, would you?" He enjoyed the look he got. Brady was stood at the window, his hand on the curtain, flinching as headlights passed. Hardly any traffic – where were they? A motel? And now that he came to think of it, where was the bitch?

"You left your woman behind? Unguarded? Stefan will enjoy that…"

"She's quite capable on her own! There is enough ammo in that RV to take down every single one of you fangers in this hellhole of a town. So shut the hell up." The mutt ran his hand over his buzz cut. He could see the web of scars covering the animal's skull. Knew he'd scored another point. Brady was now distracted. Thinking about the possibility of Stefan and Jules. Alone in the woods.

The werewolf strode angrily to the filthy kitchenette fridge. Opened a warm beer that fizzed up over his hands. "Fuck!"

"Let me have some of that." He didn't actually want the liquid. Alcohol would only serve to dampen his thirst for blood. He just needed the werewolf to approach. Brady gave him a look. Apparently hell would freeze over first. "What? What could I possibly do to you? You have me tied up tighter than a ten dollar whore."

The werewolf regarded him with those steely grey, yellow-flecked eyes. "And why would I share a beer with you? This isn't a social event. You have something I need. Simple as that. You tell me where it is and you walk out of here. Alive. Or, undead. Whatever."

He snorted. "Yeah, right. You'd let me walk out. Somehow I doubt that. You don't strike me as the 'let's make a deal' type. You're a mutt. A dog. Who'd turn on his owner for a piece of meat. So, why would I tell you anything?"

Pain registered. Another vervain-dipped bullet, this one lodging in his left shoulder. Drawing in a quick breath he flicked his captor a searing look from clear blue eyes. "Mmm, this is getting boring. If that's all you've got, keep going. Fire away. Bring it on, doggie."

"You're fucking sick, man." Brady raised his eyebrows.

"You better believe it. And I won't be telling you a damn thing. No matter what other half-assed torture devices you've got hidden around this god-forsaken room." The werewolf snarled. Nice. He had him where he wanted him. Discombobulated. Pissed off.

The werewolf quickly crossed the room. Hit him hard across the face. Hard. Christ, this guy had a hair trigger. Hadn't anyone taught him restraint? What's more, he could use an hour or two at charm school. Clearly he had skipped both and jumped straight to unhinged asshole. It wasn't difficult to understand the wolf's strategy. Inflict pain.

"What is it that you want anyway? What is worth the price of my freedom? I'm assuming it isn't lessons in how to effectively torture. Because apparently you can't be taught that. But, I am curious. What could I possibly have that would be helpful to you and your pack of flea-bitten mongrels? Good manners? Smoldering good looks? Deodorant?"

Brady sneered. "The moonstone. You know where the moonstone is. And I want it." He leaned in and breathed over him, a steel glint in his eyes. "But go ahead, don't share. I'm happy to send you back to your friends a piece at a time. One for every heart you and your pretty-boy brother ripped from my friends. And I'll save your head - your head will be for Mason…"

The werewolf's voice cracked as he said the name, but he quickly recovered. But not quickly enough. There, that tone, the hint of – what was it? More than grief. So, Mason meant more to him than the others. Maybe even more than that she-bitch… He wondered if she knew that. Interesting.

"Well, you clearly don't have a clue how the killing of a vampire works. Because if you did, you would know that there will be no 'pieces.' 'No head-on-a-platter'. You're confusing the killing of the undead with the unimaginative rituals of the human mafia." He kept his tone glib. But shit. If the werewolves knew about the moonstone it would only make things more difficult. There was now more at stake. Much more. He had to tread carefully.

The man was obviously violent – that was clear from the numerous scars riddling his body - but he wasn't a psycho. He knew his way around vampires. Captured them. Tortured them. To write him off as lacking in intelligence, a simple thug, could be a fatal mistake. He was confident that the dog would kill him without hesitation if pushed too far. Moonstone or no moonstone.

"Brady. That's your name isn't it?" The werewolf didn't respond. "Well, Brady, I have too much vervain in my system. You know that's true. And, so, if you don't help me dig this bullet out, I am going to pass out again. Then you won't have a rat's chance in hell of getting that moonstone before my brother tracks you down." Brady's eyes were wary. Weighing the truth.

'Come on' he thought impatiently. He needed the werewolf to take the bait. He could sense that the other male was nervous about being here alone with him. That he didn't like being separated from his pack. And he now knew that other thing too. The thing that Brady tried to hide. That indefinable quality that made men approach the rugged werewolf in bars, men that he always disappointed… or did he always disappoint? He flicked his eyes to the wolf. "Help me get this bullet out of my shoulder, or it's all over."

'Come on, come on… buy it….' he groaned inwardly. Brady just stood there swigging his damn beer. Apparently thinking. Deciding. And then…finally. The increasingly jumpy lupine screwed up the empty can and tossed it. Decision made, Brady walked over and jiggled the knife loose from his thigh. Damn, that hurt like a son-of –a-bitch. No pun intended.

He let the pain reflect in his face, just enough so the other would believe he was still incapacitated. "Hold still. You come near me with those fucking fangs, vamp, and I'll start with your balls."

"Delightful. Could you? Please?"

Good, Brady was close now. He could smell him clearly. A mixture of sweat, fear and the alcohol he had recently consumed. The dog was trying to still his shaking hands. Trying to calm his breathing, but the thumping heart was giving him away. Perfect. The werewolf's fear was going to play right into his hands.

"Who'd have thought it," he taunted, "the big, bad wolf afraid of a little bite." Brady ignored the obvious attempts at ridicule, straddled him and dug in the knife. A cry escaped his lips. Faking pain was not necessary. His body went rigid and he pulled against his chains. He hated having his hands tied behind his back. He felt too open. Too vulnerable. He grimaced as the wolf worked.

"Stop pulling away, goddamn it." Brady complained. He dug deeper, carelessly. His mission, obviously, was to retrieve the bullet, not to do it with precision. The knife was deep in his flesh, flesh that battled to heal against the fingers working inside.

"Get it out!" He hated the desperation in his voice.

"I would if you'd stop wriggling so damn much." The wolf's weight shifted, he was almost sitting on him now, pressing taut legs against thighs. The heavier male's arm moved swiftly around to the back of his head, struggling to get a better grip. The weight of Brady pressed down on him as the panting wolf carried out the task of removing the deeply imbedded bullet, the physical distance between them closing with each thrust of the knife. He could almost taste the sharp tang of Brady's sweat. Could see the carotid artery that jumped within striking distance. He stared, hypnotized, as the blood within it pulsed. Taunting him.

Then, without warning, it all stopped. The pain, the inner struggle to strike out with fangs, the craving for blood. Brady sat back on his knees and displayed the bullet with undisguised pride. He found himself actually warming to the dog's evident pleasure.

"There. Now you can stop your whining. I thought you vampires were super-human." Brady stepped back. Removing body weight and warmth. He found he missed the body contact. Perhaps because it was a feeling other than pain. Comfort. Or something more.

"I could have killed you." He called after the werewolf as the male walked over and threw the bullet into the sink. He actually didn't know if a vampire's bite could kill a werewolf. But it sounded like a concession. A gesture of goodwill. The wolf's shoulders flexed. "I could have," he added petulantly, for good measure, "but I didn't."

Brady took his time turning around. "So what do you want? A medal?" His tone, sarcastic. The look, a mocking sneer. The craggy male strode back across the room towards him. A distinctive swagger, unmistakable – almost… sexy? Christ. Where the hell had that thought come from? He shook his head, trying to re-focus.

"No, a deal. I want to walk out of here. Undead. And with all my body parts."

The wolf laughed. "I've already told you. You tell me where the moonstone is. I go get the moonstone. Then you get to walk away."

"No. I don't think so. We both know that's not how it works." He couldn't believe what he was about to do. Oh well. All was fair in love and war, or at least in getting the hell out of a crappy hotel room, away from a sociopathic werewolf.

He forced himself to relax his body. Lowered his shoulders. Cocked his head to the side. Practically pouted with his lips. Pleaded with his eyes. He gathered that compulsion didn't work on these creatures but his baby blues still had their own merits. Hell. He'd been seducing humans for decades. Surely a werewolf wasn't that different and would easily succumb to the art of sexual persuasion.

He spoke seductively, "You untie me and then I'll take you to the moonstone. And then we both walk away." "Do you think I'm stupid?" Brady bared his teeth, an instinctive canine response. Crap. Apparently his come-hither look had been wasted on the canine.

He decided that honesty might be the easiest card to play at this point. "I don't think you're stupid. I think you're smart. Smart enough to know that I will never tell you where the moonstone is. Not while I'm tied up in this dump. We have to arrive at a mutually satisfactory arrangement. Or else we'll both be here until your clan or mine tracks us down. And then no-one wins."

The wolf went quiet. This was the moment. He had to drive his advantage home. "Untie me. You have my word. As a very old, honorable gentleman. I will take you to the moonstone. Unharmed." Silence.

And, then, he was standing. Unchained. Free. Well, perhaps that was a rather optimistic assessment of the situation. Because Brady was training a rather imposing bow gun on his chest and it stood to reason that the partially visible, ominously overgrown darts weren't designed for taking down just any wild creature. Great. He supposed that it was back to his original strategy. Using his words rather than his fists.

It would be an added bonus if that plan also resulted in Brady moaning. In pain or with pleasure. Brady's choice.