Well, this little bunny got lots of encouragement, so we'll try writing a bit more, and seeing if that prompts it to dictate a bit more, and maybe come up with, oh, maybe a plot, seeing as it's a plot bunny - not sure what it's name is, if anybody recognizes it, do speak up so we know whom to cheer for. For completeness, we'll start at the very beginning (it's a very good place to start). I struggled with a name for this one, but in the end I plonked for:

Title: On Yer Bike

Summary: 'On yer bike' (slang): An impolite way to tell someone to go away because you're not listening to them. Which is pretty much the response Sam and Dean get for their opinion on a vacation project. But what starts out as fun fossicking through the junk at Bobby's yard could turn out to be a matter of life and death...

Rating: T. Because this story may contain traces of Dean.

Setting: As just about all of my stories are, it's set in the Jimiverse, which becomes ever more delightfully AU with every SPN episode. The Winchesters certainly take their clothes off more frequently here...

Blame: Lies with the Denizens who prodded the little plot bunny to start muttering again. If it clams up, it's all your own faults. That, and Real Life (curse it).

Disclaimer: Not mine, and I'm cool with that, because the wear and tear on the beer fridge and the hair dryer would do dreadful things to my power bills.

Chapter One

"One, two, three, HEAVE!"

They yanked on the rope.

"One, two, three, HEAVE!"

A twelve year old boy, and an eleven year old girl, hauled on the sodden hemp as hard as they could.

"One, two, three, HEAVE!"

Behind them, two Rottweilers, back legs scrabbling in the gravel, helped.

"One, two, three, HEAVE!"

With a twanging sound, the ancient cordage, which had quite possibly once seen service as a mooring line, let go, and all four of them ended up sprawled on the ground.

"This isn't working," Frankie stated, brushing herself off and peering at the tangle of junk that really didn't look like it had shifted at all. "Even with Thor and Athena helping." The female nudged her head under Frankie's hand, soliciting pats. "You did really good, 'Thene," she praised her dog.

"There's too much stuff all tangled together," RJ agreed, considering the problem, as his own dog Thor sniffed curiously at the mess of metal. It was the nature of a junkyard, he supposed; stuff got dumped, stuff got moved, stuff got shoved on top of other stuff, it all got stuck together unless it was purposefully, carefully stowed to begin with. "It could be stuck in the ground, too."

"It has been here for a while," conceded his cousin, shoving experimentally at what looked like the mortal remains of an old tricycle. It barely shifted. "Some of it could be rusted together."

"Maybe we need to move more from off the top," mused RJ.

"Uncle Dean always says, if at first you don't succeed, get a bigger engine," Frankie reminded her cousin. "What we need here is more grunt."

"No way," stated RJ firmly, "Absolutely no way. I've only just started havin' lessons – if I try to get the keys, and get the car down here, Dad will kill me. If I'm lucky. More likely, he'll ground me until I'm thirty, and I will never ever be allowed to drive his Baby again."

"Not the car, you moron," Frankie rolled her eyes in a way that left absolutely no doubt that she was Sam Winchester's offspring, "I mean more muscle power."

"They won't come and help," RJ said gloomily. "Dad and Uncle Sammy and Grandpa Bobby are only leavin' us alone out here because they think we can't shift it."

"I wasn't thinking of them," Frankie sniffed disdainfully.

RJ's eyes strayed to where their fathers' dogs, Xena and Zeus, were lounging with their ageing dam, Rosie, and elderly Rumsfeld, under the gnarled and spreading rosemary bush. "They look kinda comfy exactly where they are," he grinned ruefully.

Frankie groaned theatrically. "Men," she humphed, with all the misandry a precocious tween could muster, "Their brains are all testosterone poisoned. I said, we need more muscle power."

Leaving the corner of the yard where the two cousins had been attempting to extract a particular piece of discarded machinery, she marched back to the front of the yard, towards the gates. Two stone gargoyles, clutching travel mugs (which nobody ever seemed to notice) sat sentinel atop them.

"Tiem! Zan!" called Frankie, "Can we borrow you guys for five minutes?"

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"It's awful quiet out there," muttered Bobby, peering into his coffee.

"Good," humphed Sam, tapping at his laptop's keyboard, "It doesn't happen that much with kids their age; enjoy it while it lasts."

"It's a nice change from Hurricane RJ," Dean conceded.

"You're not listening to me," grumped Bobby, "That's two Winchester kids out there! And when two Winchester kids go quiet, it's time to start worryin'..."

The door banged, and RJ announced his presence with his usual shout. "It's just us!" he yelled, heading straight for the cookie jar.

"Oh, goody," snarked Sam, "For a moment, I thought it was a door-knocker, fundraising for the Society For Terminally Shouty People."

"We need more cookies," RJ peered into the jar as he stuffed one into his face.

"Oh, I'll have the cook get onto it right away, sir," Bobby performed an extravagant bow. "Anythin' else you'd like the servants to do for you?"

"That would be just spiffy, Robert," trilled RJ in a dreadful British accent, "Have the cook make some more of Auntie Ronnie's triple-choc cookies, will you?"

"Idjit," glowered Bobby.

"Use your inside voice inside, RJ," sighed Dean, in the manner of a parent who suspects that no matter how many times he says it, it's never going to get through. "What are you two doin' out there?"

"Looking at the junk," Frankie replied, taking the two travel mugs to be bench. She expertly began to make coffee for both of them, something she'd learned to do at a very early age.

"Find anything good?" asked Bobby. 'Looking at the junk' was something that both youngsters had liked to do since they were small: they would find a piece of some defunct machine, and spend hours poking and prodding at it, trying to figure out how it had worked, and what it had been. There had been some pretty outlandish suggestions over the years. The tumble dryer casing that had been determined to be a time machine for squirrels was probably Bobby's favourite.

"Yeah," answered RJ, "But we can't shift it. It's stuck pretty good."

The adults exchanged small discreet smiles.

"What are you doin', Frankie?" queried Sam.

"I'm just making some coffee for the gargoyles, Dad," she replied, "While we're outside. You want one while I'm here?"

"She knows how to run that machine," beamed Dean, "I've never seen anybody turn out a low-fat, high-emo, dolphin-friendly ozone-safe skinny mocha latte which girly syrup as fast as your kid, bro."

"Zan showed me how," Frankie told them, "And I thought I'd fill their mugs up for them."

"They do love them some java," chortled Bobby. "Well, you two just be careful out there, there's stuff that can hurt you, you know that."

"Yes Grandpa Bobby," the kids chorused obediently before heading out again.

"Now, that right there," Bobby began as they left, "That right there is damned suspicious."

"They've just found something to keep them occupied," Sam assured him. "You know what they're like, RJ will try to figure out how it works, and Frankie will be in later researchin' it to see what it does."

"Besides, you saw how it's stuck under all that other stuff – they'll never get it out by themselves," Dean grinned. "And isn't that sort of play meant to be healthy for kids? You know, unstructured play, and imagination, problem solving, and all that? They're not slumped in front of a game console."

"Sometimes, it'd be less worry if they were," Bobby sighed.

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"What do you think?" asked RJ anxiously, as the two gargoyles peered and prodded at the tangle of metal. The two stone creatures conferred in their own subsonic language, then Tiem, the older and slightly smaller of the two, gave him a big grin, and a thumbs up. "Awesome! Well, there's no time like the present."

Zan gestured to him to step back, then the gargoyles took hold of the old tricycle. Long stone arms heaved, and with a creak and a snap, it came away. Tossing it aside, they took hold of what was underneath it, and began to pull.

Frankie was right – it had been there for some time, and it was partially stuck in the earth. But it was no match for the strength of living granite, and the mechanical advantage of such long arms, and eventually, with a violent shudder, it sprang free of the tangle of decaying metal.

Tiem and Zan picked themselves up, then inspected their booty with RJ.

"This is great!" the kid enthused, "Just about all the bits are here! Thanks guys! We couldn't have done it without you!"

Grinning, the gargoyles each performed a little bow.

"I got you coffee," announced Frankie, who'd been walking more slowly with the mugs. "Oh, hey, you got it out! Thanks!"

Zan jumped into the air and did a happy little somersault, and they accepted their mugs with nods of thanks, then the gargoyles of Singer Salvage headed back to their gateposts, returning to their unceasing vigilance.

RJ heaved their acquisition upright. "Come on," he chattered in excitement, "We gotta get this to the shed!"

With a giggle of glee, she got behind him to help push.

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"You think this might be a job?" asked Bobby.

"Could be," confirmed Sam, "But I need more intel, to work out what it is."

"I never do like to hear that there may be a fugly operatin' this close to home," the old Hunter muttered. "It's not even an hour away. Barely the other side of town."

"Which means, once Samantha here has done his laptop dancing, we can go and gank it, then be home in time for dinner. And Auntie Ronnie's triple-choc cookies," beamed Dean sunnily. "Robert."

"Watch it, asshat," Bobby grumbled. "Well, let me know if you need a hand chasin' intel, I got somethin' I gotta look up for another Hunter, but I can... God's tits!"

"What? What?" Sam joined Bobby at the kitchen window. "What is it... oh, God, are you kidding me?"

"What is it, ladies?" Dean's curiosity prompted him to join them, "Must be something interesting to get your panties twisted..."

As RJ and Frankie went across the yard with their prize, he pushed the window open, and bellowed,

"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT!?"

"What does it look like, Dad?" grinned RJ happily. "It's our new project!"

Sam rounded on Dean. "You said they couldn't possibly get it out!" he snapped, "You said that it was stuck in there so good, that they'd never get it out!"

Bobby's eyes narrowed as they settled on the gargoyles with their mugs. "I think they coulda had some help," he sighed.

"Well, it's, it's..." stammered Dean, waving a hand uncertainly, "It's junk. It's been there for years. There's no way, no way, they'll get it running."

"Dean," said Bobby quietly, "We are talkin' about the son of a talented mechanic, who's turnin' into a damned fine wrench himself already, and the daughter of a smartass, who has already demonstrated a frightenin' capacity to figure things out. Are you really sayin' you think that they'll never get it running?"

They watched, with a sense of defeat and parental gloom, as the Winchester kids manhandled the old trailbike into one of the sheds.

Dean wilted. "It's nothing I didn't do when I was a kid," he sighed. "And it could be worse. We could have the Jaeger kids here. They've got their mother's talent for metal work. Sabine can already weld almost as well as Ronnie. Neither of ours is that good with that stuff; that'll slow them down..."

Later, the door banged again, and they were back inside again.

"Please tell me you're not gonna try and get that thing going," groaned Sam.

"I don't think we can," answered RJ, with a brutally frank assessment of his own ability. "It's pretty seized up, but it's the frame that's the real problem; some bits are rusted right through. The swingarm isn't safe. I could find a lot of it in the yard, but I don't think it's something that just the two of us can do."

Dean found that he was torn between disappointment for his son, and relief that he wouldn't have to worry about the kid tearing around on a resurrected trailbike. "Well, it was worth a shot to look at it," he smiled, "Maybe you could pull the engine, see if you can get it going, they're worth money."

"So, shall we make some of Auntie Ronnie's triple-choc cookies instead?" asked Bobby.

"Oh no," smiled Frankie, moving to the sideboard to collect her cell from the charger, "Just the two of us can't do it. I came in for my phone; I'm gonna take some pictures, and send them to Sabine, and see what she things we should do."

"She's real good at that sort of stuff," RJ nodded, "If anybody can suggest a fix for that swingarm, it's her."

With a final raid on the cookie jar, they headed back outside.

"God's tits," sighed Sam.

"And Satan's toilet tissue," agreed Dean.

So, that's the start - we have another chapter, and we'll try to get this turned into an honest-to-Cas story...