Summary: The vampires won't stay dead. An unexpected sequel to 'Sampire, Dampire'.

A/N: Now I've put my studies to bed I've got writing time again.
A/N: This was inspired by babyreaper who said 'Sampire, Dampire' ended too sadly.

Sampire, Dampire II: The Stake Out by frostygossamer

Sam and Dean had been sitting in the cylindrical steel culvert under the highway since sun-up. Sam, feeling about eight feet tall, was finding it a bit uncomfortable scrunched up for so long. Especially since it was impossible to lie down, as there was a piddling stream running through the tunnel from one side of the road to the other. It was hot and dirty.

"Looking a little less bright outside", Sam said hopefully, peering out at the daylight.

"Give it another hour or two", Dean replied curtly, from the opposite side, his back resting against the cool metal tube, his eyes closed feigning sleep.

Sam had been champing at the bit to get moving ever since noon. Dean was pretty keen to get on himself. It hadn't exactly been a picnic sitting cooped up in there with his cranky brother, while the sun blazed down outside. But there was no alternative. Since Bobby had driven off with the Impala, there was nowhere else to hide from the sunlight, and they didn't want to burn up. Being vampires could be a drag like that.

"I just hope Bobby is taking proper care of my baby", he muttered sadly. Dean hated being separated from his pride and joy, even when needs must.

"Sure he will", Sam assured him, laying back and chuckling.

"That was one helluva idea you had with the little piles of dirt on the front seats", he remarked, full of admiration.

"Pretty cool, huh?", Dean agreed. "Got the idea from some old black and white movie I saw on late night cable."

"Seem to remember you always said those old fang-fests were full of crap", Sam pointed out.

"Oh sure", Dean replied. "total crapola. But it's funny how people will believe any bullshit they see in a movie."

The two brothers chuckled at the stupidity of mortal kind.

"You know, it used to annoy the hell out of me", Sam commented, "trying to finish my class assignments while you watched midnight horror flicks, and treated me to a running commentary on all the goofs. Who knew it would come in handy one day?"

('o')

In another couple hours, Dean finally judged that it was safe to leave their cramped little nest. Sam stood up and stretched his legs, his arms, his back, everything, including his hair. Dean fished their duffels out of the culvert, and flung Sam's at his head. Sam caught it like an NFL wide receiver. They headed off down the highway, keeping their eyes open for a lift into town.

After a couple miles, Dean cursed and sat down on the roadside suddenly, dragging off his left shoe and tipping out a humongous stone.

"God, I hate to walk", he griped. "I'm so freakin' jonesin' for my baby."

"Look, Dean", Sam replied. "We'll go steal back the Impala as soon as we get the chance. Bobby'll look after her till then. Meantime a little hike won't do us any harm."

"Hitch-hike you mean", Dean corrected, eyeing an approaching car. It was a battered old clunker driven by a fat old guy, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other stuffing pizza into his face from a box balanced on the dash.

Dean and Sam flagged down the old boy, looking all innocent and in need of help. Sam approached the car, as the driver wound down his side window. Sam was always the expert at faking sincerity.

"Going into town, Sir?", he politely asked. "My buddy here's sprained his ankle and we could use a lift."

Dean hobbled around a little, overacting the pain, while the old guy eyed him suspiciously.

"OK, sure", he decided, eventually. "You guys get in the back. I'll drop you on Main Street."

Dean winked at Sam as they got into the back seat.

('o')

Just outside town, they ditched the hijacked scrap-heap for an anonymous truck, found a motel and got themselves a room.

In the middle of some field, between town and the place he stopped to pick up two perfectly normal hitchers, an old fat man was wondering why he hadn't had more sense at his age, and also why he felt a little woozy and his neck hurt.

Sam bounced out of the shower, in a very small towel, only to find, to his huge disappointment, that his brother had already flaked out on the bed. He lay down beside him and tried to stare him awake. After about a half hour that finally worked.

Dean leaned up on his elbows and smacked his lips together hungrily.

"Jeez, I could eat a live raccoon", he declared, figuratively.

Sam was unfazed by that declaration. He'd been a vampire a while now. He knew you could get some funny cravings.

"Well, I'm good, for now", he informed his brother, patting his toned stomach.

Dean gave him a disgusted look. "Oh yeah, you think? Dude, biting that old guy was some bad idea. Ever hear of cholesterol? He had to weight a ton, man. And pizza breath, nasty!"

Sam grinned. "Variety adds a little spice", he paraphrased. "You wanna go out, get some action?"

"Sure", Dean replied, already at the door, keys in hand. "You coming? Or you just gonna pose there like a life class model?"

By the time Dean pushed open the door of the bar Sam was right on his heels.

('o')

Early next morning found Sam getting down to a little old-fashioned research on his trusty laptop, which he had found at the bottom of Dean's bag.

"Hey!", he yelped indignantly. "You've changed all my preferences, Dude."

"Sam, it was my laptop", Dean replied as he sat throwing a rubber ball he'd found under the bed up against the opposite wall. "I personalized."

"Hell, Dean, did you have to change my cool Ghostfacers wallpaper?", Sam moaned. "What's with this Busty Beauties 3D screensaver? And my home web page? Dean! Is that even legal?"

Dean snickered. "Aw, Princess", he mocked at his brother's outrage.

Sam applied himself to his keyboard, muttering from time to time.

"Ooh, here's something", he eventually said. "Graveyard desecrated. Missing bodies. Not thirty miles from here. Sounds kinda like a ghoul, maybe. Take a look, huh?"

"Yeah. Why not?", Dean answered, switching on the television. "We can set out soon as it gets dark. Meanwhile I'm gonna watch me some daytime TV."

Sam sighed happily. "Just like old times", he thought, clicking his laptop shut. He walked over to the bed, and lay down beside his brother.

"Since when you watch old reruns of Oprah?", he queried.

"Been doin' a lotta sad things since you've been gone, Sammy", Dean replied, wrapping an arm around his baby brother's shoulders.

('o')

The churchyard was cold and windy, even though it was summer. Sam and Dean were sitting in the weed-choked grass, leaning on a couple headstones, waiting for the supposed ghoul to turn up.

Sam looked at his watch. "One minute of midnight", he whispered hoarsely. "Should show any time now. If it's gonna show."

Dean cracked his shotgun and checked the salt rounds for the fifth time.

"Is it just me, Dude, or is there a strange kinda vibe around this place?", he asked quietly.

"It's a graveyard, Dean", Sam replied. "It's got vibes. Death kinda vibes. Vampires pick up on that sorta thing. It's like some kinda spidey sense."

There was a crackle behind them, and they both turned to peer over their gravestones at the shadowy figure, staggering toward them between the grave markers. It was built like a WWE wrestler, but with the spandex exchanged for decayed rags. It stopped beside a new grave and started to dig.

Dean signalled silently to Sam, who flitted like a phantom between the gravestones, circling behind the ghoul. Dean sprang to his feet and approached the thing full on.

"Hi there!", he smirked. "Lovely night for a picnic."

To his surprise the ghoul didn't attack or try to run. The lumpen shape simply flopped down despondently on the graveside.

"Time was", it moaned. "A ghoul could do its thing without this kinda harassment. There was a 'Brotherhood of the Boneyard'. We helped each other out. Sure, there were a few guys with torches and pitchforks. And then there were the paranormal investigators, trying to 'exorcise' us", he made air quotes, "Now your kind are coming after us with shotguns. What is the world coming to?"

Sam came closer. "Dude, I never knew these things could talk", he gasped.

"Sure I can talk. Why the hell not? I don't have to be human to talk", it asserted. "You can talk."

"You can tell I'm not human?", Sam asked, surprised.

"Course I can", it replied sniffing. "I can smell it. You been dead maybe ...one year."

Sam felt somewhat insulted. "You sayin' I smell of death?", he asked, sharply.

"No, no", it replied, hastily. "You don't rot. Not like him." It gesticulated towards the grave it was sitting on. "You smell good and fresh." It pronounced the word 'fresh' with some distaste.

Dean didn't like the way Sam was getting all friendly with the thing that they'd come there to hunt. He unloaded both barrels into the ghoul and it slumped back onto the grave. It croaked pathetically and disintegrated.

"Now I'm feeling kinda sorry for it", Sam muttered. "It was just some poor 'thing' trying to make a living, kinda like us."

Dean was indignant. "It was NOT like us, Dude. It was a nasty, grave-defiling, corpse-devouring, sick-assed fiend. That is so NOT us. We're the good guys". He grabbed Sam by the arm. "We're still the good guys, right?"

"Sure", Sam agreed and grinned. "We're the cavalry. Saving the world from evil." He laughed and Dean slapped him on the back.

"Brotherhood of the Freakin' Boneyard!", Dean grumbled as they wandered back to their truck.

('o')

Back at their motel, the brothers were still bickering, as they stepped down from their purloined vehicle.

"That", Dean said caustically, "is so not the right attitude, man. A ghoul is not a rare species of North American fauna in need of preservation. This is so not a biodiversity issue."

Sam followed Dean into their room, petulantly throwing down their bag of weapons in vexation. He threw it with sufficient force that a few tools fell out onto the floor. He bent to gather them up.

"And another thing", Dean continued, wagging his finger. "Since when did you start feeling empathy for that kinda undead freak?"

As a year-old paid-up member of the undead fraternity, Sam felt that last remark to be somewhat cold. He prodded his brother crossly with the tool he was holding in his hand. Unfortunately it happened to be a sharp wooden stake, not the best choice.

"Sam, I just think you gotta..." Dean's next diatribe cut off mid-word, and his lifeless corpse hit the ground with a dull thunk.

Sam was horrified. He sank to his knees, gathered his brother's lifeless body in his arms and held him tight, sobbing pathetically, for twenty minutes.

"Oh God, no!", he cried, his cold tears splashing on Dean's poker-mask face.

Then it occurred to Sam that something hadn't happened. Dean hadn't disintegrated, grown rapidly ancient and turned to dust, evaporated like smoke or exploded in a cascade of pretty sparkly bits. Sam had read enough and seen enough movies to expect something. Hesitantly Sam grasped the end of the stake protruding from Dean's chest and pulled.

"...remember which side you're on, man", Dean concluded.

Sam stopped any further griping by pressing a kiss to Dean's lips. Dean was a little startled. Lectures weren't usually received so well by his brother. His reaction was generally more about pouting and huffy silence.

"What the fuck, Dude!", Dean exclaimed, noticing with surprise that he was now on the floor.

"Oh, Dean", Sam replied, smiling through tear-filled eyes. "You're alive! Awesome!"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Somehow I think that's unlikely. This time. What the hell happened?"

"Dean", Sam explained. "I kinda staked you. With a stake." He waved the offending piece of wood. "And you kinda died. Like real dead. I thought I'd lost you." He wiped his eyes on the back of his hand and sniffed.

"Jerk", Dean retorted reprovingly, and lifted his shirt to stare at the shocking great hole in his chest. It was about an inch and a half across but already starting to close up.

Sam touched the wound with the tip of his index finger. "Sorry", he apologized. He slid his finger inside the hole. "Dean", he whispered, full of emotion. "I can feel your heart."

The vampire in Sam found that very affecting. And it was getting him a little turned on.

"Do you mind not doing that", Dean complained. "It feels totally weird."

"Really?", Sam replied. "I'm finding it kinda hot."

He removed his digit, applying his lips to the raw hole, sliding the tip of his tongue inside, tasting his brother's flesh.

"You sick SOB", Dean chuckled, ruffling Sam's floppy hair.

"Oh yeah?", Sam replied, pushing his brother backward onto the rug.

Dean's eyes sparkled playfully, staring up into Sam's. "Oh yeah!"

The room was starting to feel pretty damn hot.

Dean closed his eyes. These near-death experiences tend to cloud your judgement, he thought. A few days ago he would have decked anyone who even suggested that he would as much as lay an inappropriate finger on his baby brother.

Since he'd turned things were different. A vampire is a sensual being and, now that his senses were working in overdrive, he couldn't help but respond to the almost tangible warmth that his brother radiated.

They say love equals sex equals death, very Freudian or whatever, but definitely very primal; primal, raw and undeniable. Those arms, fingers, lips searching his skin, the body moving against his, arms enfolding, intertwining, fingers tracing, clawing, lips skimming, sucking. Sam's love was overwhelming. He was drowning in it. He was losing control. Again, dammit!

"Sammy", he whispered.

"Love you, D.", his Sammy murmured against his neck.

"Oh, what the heck."

('o')

A half hour later they were sitting on the bed together re-buttoning their clothes.

"I seem to remember you saying something about one time only, last time", Sam reminded his brother, grinning.

Dean shrugged. "Two fucks don't make a right", he pronounced sagely.

"What the Hell is that supposed to mean?", Sam demanded. "You might as well say 'Two fucks don't make a summer'."

"It means", Dean insisted firmly, "that was strictly a 'sympathy' fuck. And that's all. You got all emo. I got sympathetic."

"Uh-huh", Sam responded.

They lay back on the bed to wait for sun-down, in silence.

"Somebody's in denial", Sam sang to himself.

Dean kicked him in the shin.

('o')

When Sam woke again, Dean was up and pacing the room.

"What now?", Sam asked, sitting up.

"I'm all wound up about my baby, Sam", Dean replied. "I've been lying there worrying about how she's doing without me. Bobby's a good guy but his place is basically a scrap yard. It's like sending a thoroughbred to a dog pound. She's gonna get rusty. I just know it."

Sam could see that his brother was quietly freaking again.

"Dean", he said soothingly. "No need to get stressed out. Bobby's not gonna just junk her in the yard, man. He knows she's a classic. He'll be giving her all his tender loving care, trust me. He'd never insult your memory with anything less."

Dean seemed a little calmed down by that reasoning. But...

"It's no good, Sam. I can't go on another day without my baby. Hell, we wouldn't be the Winchesters without the Winchester Ride. She's family."

"OK, OK, Dean, what say we go boost her tonight?"

Dean cheered up immediately. "Good thinking, Batman", he agreed.

('o')

Meanwhile, somewhere in South Dakota, Bobby Singer was enjoying a hot cup of tea. Yes, we all know he has a rep as an inveterate whiskey drinker, but every old guy enjoys a cup of tea and a cookie once in a while.

He was sitting at his messy desk perusing the TV schedule and grumbling about the poor offering, when he heard a sudden faintly metallic chink from outside in the yard. He tensed and looked at his dog Rumsfeld. The Rotweiler whimpered nervously.

Grabbing his trusty weapon, Bobby opened the door and scanned the yard suspiciously. Rumsfeld stood by his feet, sniffing the night air. Silence hung over the lot. Bobby noticed an unfamiliar truck, parked opposite the entrance to the yard. He patted Rumsfeld on the head, and sent him outside, then went back inside, closing the door behind him.

Outside in the yard, Dean had located his prized possession, snuggled under a tarp. She was unlocked so he slipped inside, relishing the familiar feel of the driver's seat.

"It's OK, Baby", he crooned. "Daddy's home."

But, of course, there were no keys.

"Hot wire her", Sam suggested.

Dean shot him a poisonous glare. "Hell no, Sam", he retorted. "We treat my little lady with respect. We'll go get my keys while the old guy's asleep."

They crept up on the house. It was in darkness. Bobby had evidently taken his tea to bed. Sam picked the lock on the front door. It wasn't exactly state of the art. Easing the door open slowly, the two brothers slipped inside, and Dean and Sam immediately fell on Bobby's desk, ransacking it for keys.

Suddenly the light snapped on. Bobby stood there in his dressing gown, a shotgun in his hands.

"I made damn sure I loaded the right ammo this time, boys", he assured them. "Blessed by a real bishop, no less. Latin engraved on each round and everything. Cost me an arm and a leg, but that's the darn economy."

Dean and Sam put their hands up and backed away. Or tried to.

Bobby cackled in a whiskery way and pointed at the rug.

"Devil's Trap", he laughed. "Sewed it into the rug. Took me a whole goddamn week, but it's a mighty fine job if I say so myself." He beamed proudly.

The boys were trapped, dammit.

"You'll also notice I have the place wired with explosives", he indicated wires sticking out of various corners. "I wasn't gonna leave anything to chance."

"How did you know we would come?", Sam asked. "Didn't you think we were dust?"

"Oh yeah, that was a fine-ass trick you pulled on me, boys. You had me fooled for a while, but soon as I got the Impala back home, I noticed that your stuff wasn't inside. Heck of a give away that, I'm afraid. And I knew you couldn't keep away from your baby for long, Dean."

"Bobby, we're old friends...", Dean began pleading.

"Don't try that, boy", Bobby retorted sharply. "I'm the best goddamn friend you'll ever have. I'm doing this for your own good. I'm gonna send you two sorry-asses upstairs before it's too late."

And with that he flipped a switch taped to the wall behind him, and dove out of the window. He grabbed Rumsfeld and hared off into the night.

"K-A-B-O-O-M!"

The house went up like the White House in 'Independence Day', made more impressive by that big box of fireworks Bobby had kept over from the Fourth of July.

Bobby surveyed the wreckage of his long-time home from a safe distance away.

"Well that's it, Rumsfeld", he said sadly to the dog. "Guess I done my duty by those kids."

As the fire subsided, and old beams and chunks of brickwork collapsed into the smouldering remains of the Roman candle that used to be Bobby's house, unbidden tears clouded the old man's eyes, blurring his vision.

In fact Bobby's vision was so blurred that he didn't notice the two tiny silhouettes of two tiny flying rodents that took off from the wreckage and winged across the face of the moon. Two creatures that snickered smugly, one of them carrying a bunch of keys in its right claws.

The boys would be back!

The End

A/N: No sad ending this time. Except for Bobby, maybe, who's now homeless. But there could be more?