Oh, ferf huck's sake, Jackie-Joy the plot bunny dictating 'Old Dogs, Old Tricks' has gone coy again - and this little... wretch has sunk its teeth into my leg. Damned plot bunnies. I hate them all. The only way to exorcise the miserable things is to give them an airing, and see if they will dictate further chapters. So for now, this bunny (whose name may be Frederika. Or possibly Montgomery) suggests the working title of...

NINE TO FIVE

Rating: T. Because Dean and words.

Summary: The Winchesters have wrapped up a job cleaning up after somebody else's stupidity - again. They're broke - again. And sleeping in the car - again. At least there are sandwiches for dinner. They've never expected Hunting to be a glamorous lifestyle, but occasionally, just occasionally, Dean wishes that they could get some sort of recognition and reward for the public service they provide. Well, besides sandwiches. And then... oh dear. And who the hell is Harry?

Blame: No doubt lies with The Denizens of the Jimiverse, who breed plot bunnies and sic them onto me. You relentless harridans.

Disclaimer: They're not mine - if they were, I'd put them in a Get-Along Shirt, slap them upside the heads, and tell them to grow the fark up. (Then I'd rent them out by the hour to the Denizens and retire on the proceeds.)

Chapter One

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, and prayed for patience as the tear-stained woman before them sniffled her way through the rambling explanation for what a character from one of his favourite authors would have called 'paddlin' with the occult'. He tried to take inspiration from his big brother, who stood, teeth clenched, obviously wishing that he could just slap the individual before them. Although it probably made sense, he thought: Dean had pissed off so many witches they'd met, it was probably cosmic comeuppance that one day he would meet one who'd piss him off right back.

"A-and, a-and, I just wanted to help," snivelled the young woman, dabbing at her eyes with a hankie that had become so soaked with mascara that it resembled a crumpled bat when she flapped it out, fruitlessly looking for a dry spot, "A-and, a-and, I thought I could help people…"

"Leslie," Sam sighed, "Sometimes, sad things happen to ordinary people, who really don't deserve it. It's just the random motion of the universe – it's all just part of life. Things happen, and people have to pick up, and carry on. It's part of being human. It happens to everybody, sooner or later."

"If had my way, it'd be happenin' to this moron right now," Dean muttered under his breath for his brother's ears only.

"But Mrs Brayson was so sad!" wailed Leslie, wringing her much-abused handkerchief, "The Braysons were married for sixty years! She missed her husband so much!"

"Of course she did," Sam told her soothingly, "But elderly people die, it's natural for all living things to age and die. There was absolutely no reason for you to try to bring him back!"

"I just didn't want her to be lonely!" Leslie hiccupped.

"Did you stop to wonder whether he wanted to come back, huh?" demanded Dean. "There he was, with a terminal illness, he died peacefully at home, went wherever he was supposed to go, and then suddenly, whammo!"

"Whammo?" queried Sam.

"Whammo," repeated Dean grimly, "Back in his body that was not only still riddled with cancer, but was in even worse shape than when he vacated the premises."

"But Mrs Brayson didn't mind!" protested Leslie, "She said she enjoyed cooking his favourite Sunday roast for him again! He hadn't been able to eat it for months before he died!"

"He might've been able to eat it," Sam pointed out, "But he wasn't able to retain it. Not with his internal organs decomposed."

"You saw the stains on her rug," Dean frowned at her. "Proper gravy leaves terrible stains."

"He did always say he couldn't resist gravy on his roast potatoes, even though it went straight through him," Leslie volunteered.

"The thing is," Sam began, hanging onto his exasperation as it strained at the leash, "When somebody says, 'Oh, I can't eat that, it'll go straight through me', they mean that it'll upset their stomach, not that it will literally drop straight to the floor because they don't have any body left there to catch it!"

"But little Annie missed Brodie so much!" Leslie erupted into gales of tears again.

"Having your pets die is one of life's lessons," Dean stated. "When you have pets, you're always gonna outlive them. It's one o' the ways kids learn about life, and death."

"Given that they already had a new pet, it wasn't a good idea, even in theory," Sam said firmly.

"But Brodie and Ginny played together!" yipped Leslie.

"No, Leslie," Sam rolled his eyes, "Brodie chased Ginny mercilessly until she had some sort of nervous fit. Ginny is a rabbit. Brodie was a greyhound. What did you think would happen?"

"It's just a good thing that he'd lost his lower jaw," humphed Dean, "Or we'd have to have laid the unquiet spirit of a damned rabbit to rest, as well as an undead dog."

"But he was happy to be back!" said Leslie, "He was definitely happy to be back!"

"Maybe," Sam conceded, "If the way he kept wagging his tail until it fell right off was any indication, sure, but that doesn't make it right…"

But Mr Scoby was so upset when his greenhouse burned down!" yowled Leslie, "He lost all his prize-winning orchids! They were his passion, those orchids! He established new ones!"

"Well, plants die too," Sam said, "That's natural as well."

"Although if somebody wanted to take a new and authentic production of 'Little Shop Of Horrors' on tour, one of them things woulda been a shoe-in for the part of Twoie," griped Dean, "Do you have any idea how much ammo I had to use to take the damned thing out? A triffid would've been easier to kill!"

"And I just wanted to help with the computer fundraiser at the grade school," Leslie sniffled again, "It's really important for kids to learn about how to use technology."

"It is," Sam agreed, "However, when you tried to help with the 'A Tablet For Every Child' fundraiser, your context was clearly incorrect."

"I thought the guy handin' 'em out looked just like Charlton Heston, you know," mused Dean, "And the things written on 'em? 'Thou shalt not give thy parents sass', 'Thou shalt not drink straight from the carton', 'Thou shalt not leave thy dirty clothes on the bathroom floor', 'Thou shalt not lie about brushing thy teeth', good rules for kids."

"But not written on slabs of granite," added Sam. "Two of them got broken toes dropping them!"

"And the less said about the local volunteer group who work in that park, the better," stated Sam.

"They were trying so hard to fix it," moaned Leslie, "They'd be there, pulling up dandelions and thistles and all sorts of nasty things, replanting with native vegetation, but it was a losing battle, and they tried so hard just to make the park a nice place to be…"

"Leslie, the name of the group is 'Need To Weed'," Sam reminded her, "Not 'Need For Weed'."

"At least they were happy for a while," Leslie mumbled defiantly.

"Anybody that stoned would be happy for a while," Dean commented.

"It was an easy mistake to make!" pouted Leslie.

"Tell that to the owner of the corner store they scoured like a plague of locusts when the munchies hit afterwards," snapped Dean.

Sam put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Look, Leslie," he began, "The thing is, just because you can do something, doesn't mean you should."

"Especially if, actually, you can't," griped Dean.

"I just wanted to help," Leslie repeated in a small voice, looking longingly at the ageing yellowed book, "Grandma always said that you should help people if you can."

"Your grandmother was clearly a powerful witch," Sam told her, "And from the look of her book, she only used to do good things. But not to mess with the natural order. Not to try to fix all people's problems for them."

"She was so good at it," Leslie sniffled some more, "She always knew exactly what to do, and how to make stuff work, and I thought, well, if it runs in the family…"

"It doesn't," Dean stated bluntly. "It does not run in the family. Leslie, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but you have no occult talent at all. If anything, you have an anti-talent. If your grandmother had been a champion swimmer, you would be doin' competitive drowning at Olympic standard."

Sam gave his brother a glare, and tried to soften the blow. "I'm afraid he may be onto something," he said a bit more tactfully, "Just because your grandmother was a talented witch, that doesn't mean that you will automatically be one too."

"It's true," nodded Dean, "Our old man was a mechanic, but Sam here, he can't tell a radiator from a washer bottle without a manual, a full schematic of the engine and a laptop to google it…"

"But you don't have to be a witch to be a good person and help others," Sam assured her, shooting his brother a searing Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean), "You can do perfectly ordinary things, like join a charity kitchen, or volunteer at an animal shelter, or visit the elderly…"

"Without attempting to resurrect any of their spouses," mumbled Dean.

Sam kicked his brother in the ankle. "So, I'm afraid we're gonna have to get rid of the grimoire," he told her.

"Nooooo!" Leslie wailed anew, "It was my Grandma's!"

"It's a loose nuke," Dean said sternly, "If one of Saddam Hussein's kids had said 'Oh, you can't decommission that nerve gas plant, it belonged to my Dad!' would you let 'em keep it?"

"What if I promise not to use it?" she asked hopefully.

Leslie, even if you didn't use it, somebody else might," Sam cut in, seeing Dean's patience stretching to the point where he was about to throw in diplomacy and go for the shock and awe phase, "It's not safe for it to exist, now that your grandmother isn't around to, you know, be its guardian."

With more tears and more running make-up, Leslie handed over the book. "What will you do with it?" she asked.

"We'll show it to a friend of ours who's real good at defusing occult UXO," answered Sam, "He'll make it safe, and know how to dispose of it without blowing anything up, so to speak."

"Okay, then," humphed Dean, "Undead husband, dog and orchids laid back to rest, Charlton Heston lookalike dismissed, environmental group detoxed, washing machine relieved of self-awareness, car with self-esteem issues counselled back to non-sentience, and all of those My Little fucking Ponies turned back into plastic dolls..."

"Lewd broomstick turned back into simple inanimate cleaning object," added Sam.

"I kinda thought that one was funny," Dean mused, "Had a hell of a mouth on him, that broom."

"It was supposed to be a broom I could ride like a witch," Leslie defended lamely. "I wanted a flying broom, not a talking broom that thought it was some sort of sex toy!"

"You never paid attention during history, did you?" Sam tutted in disgust.

"… Talking cat silenced, Winchester funds depleted to fucking broke to get the ingredients to fix the damned spells gone wrong, gas tank almost empty, job done, fuck our life," finished Dean. "I'm not gettin' paid enough to do this damned job. I'm not gettin' paid at all, except in aggravation. Evil I can fight against on general principles, but stupidity? It's a losing battle. It's like an ostrich farm, you could pour all your money and energy into it and still come up broke. Screw gravity, stupidity is the strongest force in the universe."

"Actually, gravitational force is the weakest of the four fundamental interactions," commented Sam, "The strong nuclear force is the most…"

"Shut up, Einstein," griped Dean, scrubbing a hand over his face and turning back to Leslie. "Look, I know you're not evil, but every time somebody like you messes with stuff they really don't understand, Hunters have to fix the problems. There are enough things out there that need Hunters to deal with 'em, without people makin' more damned problems. So just, no more, okay?"

"Okay," Leslie agreed in a small voice, watching her grandmother's book, "So, uh, maybe I could, you know, make you lunch?" She looked into their suspicious faces. "As in, sandwiches? With bread and butter and fillings and stuff? And absolutely no magic whatsoever?"

With a resigned sigh, Dean found a rueful smile. "Yeah, lunch would be good," he nodded, his stomach rumbling after the meagre breakfast of granola bar that had been all that the Winchester finances had been able to afford.

"Okay then," Leslie smiled, and began to forage through her refrigerator. "I got ham, and some turkey, oh, and some roast beef, will that be okay?"

"Lay it on me," declared Dean, seating himself at the kitchen table, "You got any lettuce?"

"Yeah, you want it shredded?"

"Oh, it's not for me," Dean waved a hand airily, "It's for Sam. A gigantic shaggy rabbit his size eats a hell of a lot of lettuce."

"Jerk."

Ah, Dean, the prospect of being fed always improves his demeanour. His Deanmeanour. Ha ha ha. Oh, Cas, I need another cup of tea...

Incidentally, this is the bunny that couldn't decide between evil!Ronnie and amorous!Ronnie. Feel free to make your suggestions as to which one the bun should use. In the meantime, send reviews, because they are the Delicious Sandwiches Made By Somebody Else For You At The Lunchtime Of Life!