I love zombies. They make for great movies and games, so I decided to pair them up with the Winchesters to see what would happen. Enjoy.

"Well…this looks promising," Sam said bitterly, staring around at the massive bulk of decrepit house they had the pleasure of searching.

Dean caught his frustrated expression and laughed. "You've been holding out on me, Sam. I had no idea you fancied half burned houses with god-awful bubblegum pink siding."

"Dean…"

"Should have guessed you'd want to settle down here though," Dean continued unabashed, "Your doll collection will look right at home on that spider web infested mantle over there."

"Just look for the body," Sam groaned.

"I did. It's not in this room. And I'm sorry Sammy, but I don't think we have enough stolen cash to cover the down payment."

"I'm crying inside. Look, we know the body's in here."

"Probably."

"Most definitely—"

"Which is another word for probably—"

"Would you stop acting like a two year old?"

"Would you stop acting like a 75 year old cat lover?"

"Dean!" Sam snapped, turning from his inspection of the ruined foyer to face his brother. "Focus. Please."

"Get that thing out of my eyes," Dean said, reaching out and pushing Sam's flashlight down. "Fine, fine. We'll split up and look for the body. Happy now?"

"Ecstatic."

"You want the basement or the upstairs?"

"Basement," Sam said. "If the ghost shows up, holler."

"I'm more likely to fall through the floor than holler. This place is like a thousand years old."

"Yeah, well just make sure you land on your ass, there's enough fast food padding there to save your life."

"That's not what the chicks tell me."

Sam shone the flashlight beam back into his brother's eyes.

"Sam!"

Sam laughed and shoved Dean toward the stairs. "Just go already," he said, turning and ambling toward the basement door. He heard the stairs groan as his brother began the climb to the second floor.

He noted with relief that the basement door was still unlocked and went down. He and Dean had come by to briefly look the place over a few days ago—back before the grandmother had poured them each tall glasses of sherry and told them the "ridiculous" rumors that a body had once been stashed in the ancient house—but they hadn't noticed anything at all ghost-like at the time. No cold spots, flying cutlery, strangulations, or possessions. So, in conclusion, nothing at all that would make this place anything but—

"Normal," Sam said out loud after over an hour of searching. He sighed tiredly. "Nothing's here. Told you this one was a false alarm."

He made another sweep of the basement, moving some boxes with his boot to check for trapdoors. Nothing. He was on his way back to the staircase when a loud crash of glass and wood resounded above his head.

Sam took the stairs three at a time and made it out of the basement in less than five seconds. He glanced around the foyer—empty—and continued, gun raised, up the creaking main staircase to the second level hallway. "Dean?" he called apprehensively.

There was a pause, followed by what sounded like a curse. "In here."

Sam strode to the second door and threw it open. Dean was kneeling on the floor clutching his left shoulder; his gun hung loosely from his other hand. Sam raked the room with his eyes, looking—

"I'm fine," Dean said, "Wasn't the ghost."

Sam's eyes narrowed in confusion and he lowered his shotgun. "It wasn't…?"

"Wasn't the ghost. No," he ground his teeth together, squeezing his fingers tighter over his shoulder.

"Then what…" Sam trailed off. "Are you okay?" he strode over to his brother and dropped down beside him. "Let me see."

"It's fine."

"Dean."

Dean scowled and took his hand off, revealing oozing blood and…gouged teeth marks.

"What the hell?" Sam muttered, reaching out.

"Yeah," Dean said angrily, cupping his fingers over the wound once more before his brother could touch it, "That was my response too."

"How did you manage to…" Sam started, and then switched tracks when he saw the glare Dean shot at him, "What did this?"

Dean exhaled slowly before reluctantly answering. "Some homeless guy," Dean admitted. He paused a second and then swatted at Sam, "Don't start."

"A…homeless guy?" Sam repeated, his anxiety dissipating. His lip twitched upwards, "Really?"

"Shut up," Dean growled, pushing himself up to his feet.

Sam stood as well, a smile slowly spreading across his face. "Hiding in a closet, was he? Did he ambush you?"

"I swear Sam, you keep this up and I will make your life a living hell."

"Sorry," Sam said, still grinning, "I'm…" he caught the death glare Dean was shooting him and tried unsuccessfully to turn his laugh into a cough. "I'm sorry."

"Let's just get the hell out of here."

"The ghost—"

"I didn't find anything; unless you saw Casper floating around or something I'm pretty damn sure this gig is a bust."

"No, it's haunted…" Sam said, unable to help himself, "By homeless people."

Dean punched him in the chest. "Shut. It."

"Bobby's going to be so proud to hear that you fought off—"

"Sam!" Dean said, exasperated, "I will kill you."

"Sure you will."

"We never speak of this again," Dean said, turning and leading the way back down the staircase. "Never."

"But—"

"No."

"Oh come on, you have to admit—"

"Sam!"

"Oh alright. I'll try not to remember that you were ambushed by a homeless guy."

"Good," Dean said, relieved. They made it to the Impala without further incident and Dean opened the trunk and threw his gun inside.

Sam pulled some peroxide and strips of gauze out of the med-kit. "Does it need stitches?"

"No," Dean muttered, "Just a stupid surface wound; I got him off before he could…"

"Chow down?" Sam suggested, smiling again.

"Just douse me with peroxide already so we can go," Dean grumbled.

"Yeah, okay," Sam said, pouring some onto a cotton swab. "Oh, and Dean…"

"What?" he asked wearily.

"I'll try my hardest to forget about this, but my memory might slip if I need a favor from you or something—"

"Sam!"

That's it for the first chapter. Leave a review and tell me what you think. :)