The plot bunnies are gathering, and I may be able to work a couple of suggestions/requests from the Denizens into this eventually. We'll see where it goes - looks like the one PaulatheCat sent me is going to demand a hearing, furry little bastard (I stood on my chair and tried to shoo it away with a broom, but to no avail). But first, this one insists it be heard...

Chapter 2

Sam was pecking at his laptop a couple of days later when Dean did the Smug Strut Of Self-Satisfaction (because the Walk Of Shame was completely unknown on Planet Dean) back into their room after keeping company with an informed consenting lady the previous night.

"So, do we have another Hunt yet?" asked Dean cheerfully, as Jimi woofed fondly and engaged in a happy greeting ritual.

"Yeah, we are headed for Florida," replied Sam, looking up. "Somebody's happy this morning."

"What's not to be happy about?" breezed Dean, "The sun is shining, we have a job lined up, and Amanda made me pancakes. Remarkable woman, remarkable."

"I wouldn't have picked her as your type, you know," commented Sam.

"What do you mean?" Dean looked puzzled. "Hot chicks are exactly my type."

"Look, I know it was dark in that bar, bro," Sam explained, "But since when does a woman with biceps to rival your own count as 'hot'?"

Dean looked genuinely offended. "I'm surprised at you, Sam," he sniffed, "And you accuse me of being shallow. She's a weightlifter, and yes, she may be just a little bigger in the shoulders than a lot of ladies…"

"I had no idea that the Prince Charming curse thing with Ronnie left you with a lingering hankering for women with tattoos and better pecs than yours," grinned Sam. "Or maybe as you get older, you're just realising that you can't be as picky any more…"

Dean scowled at his little brother. "She also had an imagination to rival mine," he said defensively, "And might I go on record as saying that push-up contests with you were never so much fun, nor did they ever come to such enjoyable conclusions…"

"Dean, veering towards T.M.I. there," warned Sam.

"…'Pull and shrug' takes on a whole new meaning, seen from floor level…"

"Dean!" barked Sam, "Too! Much! Information!"

"…And certainly, I will never think about the words 'jerk' or 'snatch' the same way ever again..."

"Gah!" Sam shot a dose of Bitchface #6™ (I SO Do NOT Want To Hear The Gory Details Of One Of Your Sexual Conquests, Jerk) in Dean's direction.

So, tell me about our job in Florida," his big brother smirked at him, smugification somewhat restored.

"Something worthy of your birthday," smiled Sam, as Dean's face desmugified a few degrees at the mention of the b-word.

"So, what is it?" his big brother wanted to know. "Haunted brothel? Please tell me it's a haunted brothel. A poltergeist in a gentleman's bar? Mysterious deaths at a Hooters? Oh, oh, I know – possessed strippers. We've never done a job with possessed strippers. Why have you never found us a job with possessed strippers?"

His little brother stared at him. "That's amazing," Sam told him in wonder. "That's just totally amazing. How the hell did you know that?" He frowned at Dean. "Have you been messing with my laptop, going through my files?"

"No, Sammy," beamed Dean, "But I would've if you'd told me about the possessed strippers. So, what's the deal?"

Sam consulted his notes. "In the last three weeks, this troupe of strippers has left a trail of patrons with their heads torn off – a couple of witnesses who escaped said they saw the strippers' eyes turn black, but police put it down to a combination of panic, hysteria and alcohol."

Dean broke into a huge grin. "All right! Definitely possessed strippers! So, first of all we need to check out their act, right?"

"That's what I thought," agreed Sam. "And it's happened sporadically, so we might have to go to more than one performance."

"Yeah, yeah, good thinking, Sammy," Dean nodded vigorously.

"And since the, er, fatalities have occurred when patrons have requested, um, private performances," Sam's voice registered a faint note of embarrassment, "It'll probably be necessary to ask for that."

"Yeah, definitely check that out," Dean agreed fervently.

"So, one of us has to check out the strippers, and the other cases the joint for signs on demonic activity…" Sam shot a wistful look at Dean. "I just know that the whole over-protective big brother thing will kick in, so I don't suppose there's any point me arguing with you over you using yourself as demon bait?"

"Hey, it's my duty as a big brother to keep you safe," Dean said piously. "I couldn't possibly let my baby bro walk into that sort of danger. I'd never forgive myself if those evil, gyrating, scantily-clad villains harmed a single adorably styled hair on his precious little head."

"That's what I thought," sighed Sam in a resigned tone. "And I know there's no point me telling you that I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself, so I won't even bother to argue."

"That's right, Sam," confirmed Dean, "Because nothing is more important to me than your safety. You leave the evil strippers to me."

"Right. So, the attacks have taken place right after the, er, novelty acts, when the clients were presumably at their most, um, distracted..."

Dean swallowed. "Novelty acts?" he asked casually.

Sam's face pinked, and he stuttered a little. "Um, they all have, sort of, party tricks. Individual party tricks. With, um, toys..." his voice trailed off. He looked at Dean with his most entreating puppy-dog eyes.

Dean turned his most resolute face to Sam. "Don't you worry, Sammy," he said, "You leave the recon to me. I won't have you risk yourself against this sort of evil. I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to you."

Sam looked relieved. "Thanks, big bro," he smiled. "So, I'll get you a ticket online," he turned back to the laptop, "Gold class. They're performing again in a few days. I figure you go in, do a recon of the venue, get your private show – how many demons can you handle at once here?" He peered at the screen. "You can get one, two or three."

"Three, Sam, book three," instructed Dean quickly. Sam looked worried. "They'll get over-confident and be more likely to try something if they think they have me outnumbered," Dean explained, "And we want to make sure they try something. The more of them in the one place, the better. Easier to exorcise that way."

Sam looked thoughtful. "Well, I guess if we make sure you have the knife…"

"I'll be fine, Sam, and you'll be outside, waiting to burst in and help, the minute the party tricks are over, right?" Dean beamed at him.

Sam seemed happy enough with that. "Okay, then. Oh, hey, every private show with three or more gets a free lap-dance." He looked worried again. "Can you handle a demonic lap-dance?"

Dean's expression was pure Daddy's Little Soldier. "It's part of the job, Sam," he said with serious determination, "We save people. We do what we have to, to finish the Hunt."

"Okay, then." Sam clicked a few more keys, then sat back. "Okay, you are booked in for the revue, then a private show, and, er, complimentary lap-dance…"

"Ah, I love ganking evil," Dean helped himself to a beer from the small refrigerator.

"…From Mr Magic's Marvellous Macho Men," finished Sam.

Dean sprayed a mouthful of beer across the room.

"Fnaaaargh?" he said.

"All organised, bro," continued Sam, turning around the laptop. The screen showed the webpage for a group of men with large muscles and small costumes that appeared to be made entirely from sequins and string, grinning lewdly. "So, if we hit the road, we should be there in time for your birthday, even!"

Dean gawped in horror. "Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam!" he shrieked. "Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam!"

"So, provided you have the knife, and as much holy water and salt as you can carry without looking suspicious…"

"SAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!" yodelled Dean.

"What?" asked Sam.

"I am NOT watching MALE STRIPPERS!" spluttered Dean in outrage. "You didn't TELL ME they were MALE STRIPPERS! Why didn't you TELL me they were MALE STRIPPERS? ! ? !"

"You didn't ask,' replied Sam reasonably.

"GUYS taking their PANTS OFF, Sam! Guys wearing SPARKLY CHANGE PURSES, Sam! NOT HAPPENING, SAM! NOT HAPPENING!"

"What's the problem?" asked Sam. "You don't have to dress up like a woman or anything. They're an enlightened group, they don't discriminate. See? I booked you in on Gentlemen's Night."

"SAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!"

"It's all good, bro. I even got a discount – they're running a special offer on milestone birthdays, 'The big F.-Zero Hero' offer. All you gotta do is show some I.D. with a birth date on it."

"SAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!"

Sam looked bewildered. "Dean, what's wrong?" he asked. "What happened to doing what we have to do to finish the Hunt, and save people?

Dean's eyes bugged in horror. "I don't believe you could do this to me," he said in a small voice, "It's just… it's just… GUYS! SPARKLES! CHANGE PURSES! GAAAAAAAAH!"

"Don't forget the party tricks, bro. And the lap-dance," Sam reminded him, his mouth twitching.

"GUYS, Sam! GUYS! NO PANTS! SEQUINS! MALE! WHAT?" Dean paused in his rant, and glared at his little brother. Sam let out a strangled snort, and grinned innocently.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Ohhhhh, you are dead meat, Samantha," he rumbled ominously, "You – are – SO – dead – meat…"

Sam lost his composure completely, and howled with laughter. "The look on your face, bro," he wheezed between gasps, "The look on your face!"

"Are you suicidal?" asked Dean between clenched teeth. "Do you really want to start a war with the Prankmeister?" Sam ignored him, collapsing onto his bed, still laughing.

"I could actually get you a ticket, you know," he finally managed, "Without the lap-dance maybe."

"I totally hate you," Dean grumbled, taking another drink of beer. Jimi sat next to him and whuffed, offering a paw in moral support. "At least Jimi still loves me. He's loyal, and adorable, AND he would NEVER prank me with the offer of possessed strippers. You're cruel, Sam, you're just cruel. I'm your big brother."

"Yeah, maybe I should have more respect for my older brother," mused Sam as Dean glared at him anew. "Oh, come on," he continued, "For as long as I can remember, you've been like 'I'm am older, so you will do what I say'. So, what, now you suddenly don't want to be reminded that you're older than me?"

"There's no need to rub it in," whined Dean, patting Jimi's head despondently.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Jesus Dean, you should be celebrating!" he exclaimed. "It's nothing short of a damned miracle! I mean, the average age a Hunter doing the job full-time reaches is, what, thirty-five? You're a freak, just like Dad. You've beat the odds! You're still alive, and still chasing tail, and still kicking ass! You should be shouting it from the rooftops. I'm Dean Winchester, and I'm for…"

"Don't you use the f-word!" Dean hissed at him. "Don't you dare use the f-word!"

"Okay, okay," Sam agreed placatingly, "But I think you're over-reacting." He turned back to the laptop. "I have actually found something," he continued. "There's been a string of disappearances of prize-winning dogs, both show dogs and obedience trialling dogs. The bodies that have been found afterwards have been missing pieces, specific parts or organs, and are bled out. I think there might be something in our line of work, here. It's something more than some dog-hater who's sick of the dog crap on the nature strip. I don't have an exact plan yet, and I think we need to pick Bobby's brains. I think we might also want to talk to Ronnie."

"Fine," said Dean, finishing his beer and standing up to start packing his bag, "You keep at the research, and we'll go see Bobby. Just as soon as we're done in Florida."

"Actually, there hasn't been a disappearance in Florida, I just picked that state when I was telling you the story about the possessed strippers…"

"Oh, I think we should go via Florida," said Dean with forced cheerfulness, "Because I am going to find an alligator farm, and feed you to Mr Tinkle."

"Consider it payback for making me dress up as RuPaul," suggested Sam.

"Nope, definitely feeding you to Mr Tinkle," repeated Dean, "I just hope the poor old guy doesn't choke on a furball while trying to digest your gigantic girly-haired Sasquatch ass." Dean studied his little brother critically. "I'll definitely have to tie some steak to you first, hide the stench of salad. I don't want Mr Tinkle to get an upset tummy, and throw you up."

"Alligators will eat herbivores," Sam pointed out, "So that shouldn't be a problem."

"Okay, I'll just give you a good dousing in barbeque sauce, then, " grunted Dean, "And hang a dead chicken around your neck for good measure."

"And as a bonus, after you've watched Mr Tinkle drag me into the water and swallow me whole, you'll be able to look at some really well established retirement communities while you're there," Sam pointed out helpfully.

"Bitch."

Jimi watched the squabbling unfold between his Alpha and his Second. Second had laid the ambush this time: his Alpha's posture and outraged barking indicated that this particular skirmish had not gone his way. He snuggled himself against his Alpha, whuffing in solidarity. He knew that a few days from now, the situation could well be reversed, and he would be sympathising with his Second.

He studied his Alpha through the eyes of the Hunter's dog. Recently, he'd been... thoughtful. Considering things. Which was perfectly normal for an Elder who was getting older - Elders who survived to get older became wiser, but... his Alpha was not happy about something. Jimi wondered if maybe his legs twinged in the cold weather, too. He had a limp that human eyes probably wouldn't notice, and his Alpha was very good at concealing physical weakness.

Elders who got older before they left their matter got aches and pains, that was just the way of things. But there would always be play, and the Hunt, and his Pack, until he left his matter protecting them. That was the way of things, too.

Jimi whuffed contentedly and pushed his head under his Alpha's hand, soliciting play.

Plot bunnies willing, I will get on with the main story next chapter. True dinks. Meanwhile, reviews are the Barbeque Sauce on the... they're the Dead Chicken Around The Neck of the... they're the Change Purses on the... um, they're really nice and I like them a lot.