DISCLAIMER: None of it is mine, except Jimi and the OCs (sounds like a band, doesn't it?), and you can borrow them, if you like. Just don't make them do line-dancing, is all I ask.

TITLE: Wolf in Wolf's Clothing.

SUMMARY: The Impala is tired. Seriously, it's a term used to describe an engine that's seen heavy use, and is getting badly worn out. She's not young, she's criss-crossed the country more times than can be counted, she needs some serious - and expensive - overhauling. Sam and Dean have to raise the money somehow. A job presents itself - not their usual sort of Hunt, but they're not in a position to be picky.

RATING: T. Characters use naughty words. The F word, the S word, the P word, amongst other uncivil utterances. SPANK THEM! SPANK THEM ALL! Especially Dean Winchester. But Sam Winchester too. Winchester spanking volunteers, please to form an orderly queue...

BLAME: In particular, this one is the fault of the Denizens of the Jimiverse who kept pestering for the story of how Ronnie the Cranky Antipodean Werewolf met Andrew (whom she ended up pair-bonded with), especially leahelisabeth who I'm pretty sure sent this plot bunny. Naturally, the Winchesters had to be involved.

I'll pick away at this one as time, opportunity and the co-operation of plot bunnies allows - the damned bunnies got it started, but the little mongrels will never guarantee to keep the inspirations coming. I also have a feeling that it won't be the usual crack that I seem to end up writing (although I probably won't be able to avoid it entirely) - the outline that the plot bunny whispered sounded quite nasty, actually, so we'll have to see if it finds an audience. If it becomes too heavily concentrated on OCs, it'll have to go somewhere else, like LiveJournal, because nobody likes a Mary Sue. We'll see what happens. Anyway, you have been warned. And it's our birthday, Preciousssss, so we'll write what we wantssss, yesssss we will...

PROLOGUE

November 1997

Shit Shit. Shit. This was bad. Dying on a Hunt was one thing; dying of your own stupidity was just, well, infuriating. Finding yourself not so much a Hunter as a Huntee was really, really annoying.

She was used to other Hunters trying to kill her from time to time - there would always be the 'shoot/stab/decapitate first ask questions afterwards' types out there, and she was after all technically a fugly - but this was nasty. Nasty, but maybe inevitable – news would get around, no matter how hard she tried to stay under the radar. It was a big country, but Hunters met, talked, swapped stories and information…

Worse, these guys were organised. And for some reason, the plan seemed to be to take her alive: the ambush, the group attack, the knives.

The full moon hung brightly in the cold, clear sky. She laughed grimly to herself. They had gambled that she'd go four-legged, then stand her ground. They'd gambled wrong – while gaining control of the shapeshift, she'd learned early in the piece that thinking and reacting intelligently was easier in human form. Avoiding killing anyone was easier too, although having had to tangle with half a dozen of them, she'd had to start hurting people. They started it, she heard a small voice whine in her head: she was sporting several knife wounds, and her right arm was badly damaged - it hurt like hell, but better to block an oncoming crowbar with an arm than a head. When she'd fought her way out, shots had been fired from multiple weapons - she had several rounds in her, and the stinging agony told her that at least some of them were silver. There was nothing for it; she could stand and kill, or run. Damn it, one day, trying to do the right thing was going to get her killed…

So she'd run, gritted her teeth on the worsening pain and growing lightheadedness, and run. She had darkness on her side. First priority had to go to digging the silver rounds out. It wouldn't be the first time she'd had to do that - she knew that it would hurt horribly - but then she could slink away. The only problem was, she was losing it: she'd already lost a lot of blood, and by the time she found an isolated spot in a small copse of trees, her hands were shaking so badly that she could barely hold her knife. Silver, damned silver, agonising poison… she leaned back against a tree, trying to slow her breathing, focus her vision, stop the shivering. You have to get the silver out, she told herself, stop fucking around and DO IT… but the knife had become alarmingly heavy, and the wound in her side swam in and out of focus as gravity did another sickening barrel roll…

Then she heard the movement in the trees off to one side. She closed her eyes briefly, and sighed. Bugger. This was it, then. Oh well, death before dishonour. Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to Hell we go… Go down swinging, that was the way to do it. She concentrated on her grip on the knife. You've killed me, you bastards, so no more Miss Manners. I am going to take at least one of you with me. At least.

A figure stepped out of the trees in front of her. A high pitched ringing noise started in her ears, and she heard a voice that sounded a long way off say, "She's here." Two other figures stepped into the clearing, and approached her carefully. She played possum - actually, it wasn't that difficult to pretend to be half-dead - as the first figure approached, and knelt beside her.

She snarled, and let fly with a killing strike. The man - it was a man, a male voice said "Shit!" - dodged backwards, but not before her blade made contact, drawing a shriek of pain from him. She subsided, coughing weakly, grinning.

"Enough!" barked another voice. "Christ, what a mess, you bunch of fucktards, you've really screwed this one up." It wasn't a happy voice. "You've halved the damned value, at least…"

"But she's not even…" began a more tentative voice.

"Shut it!" the Boss voice ordered. "Where are the others?"

"Corey's down, he looked pretty bad," Tentative Tone answered, "Dwayne stayed with him, he aint looking much better. No idea where Roy is – I heard him screamin'."

"Fuck," Boss was officially not happy. There was the sound of a pistol being cocked. "We'll salvage what we can from this, and then…"

He was abruptly cut off when a snarling black streak shot out of the trees, and knocked him halfway across the clearing.

The cavalry arrives, she grinned to herself, clawing her way to her feet using the tree.

"It's a fucking wolf!" Tentative Tone shrieked, trying to draw a bead on the massive animal while it worried at the Boss.

"You really are a fucktard, aren't you?" she growled at him before hitting him in the head with the hilt of her knife with everything she had. He went down like the sack of shit he was.

Third Guy looked from his Boss being mauled by a large dog, and the woman with murder in her eyes staggering towards him. He decided on self-preservation before rescue, and raised his gun.

Her knife flew through the air, burying itself in his shoulder. She retrieved it none too gently.

"Mako!" she called to the dog, "Enough! Enough!"

The animal barely registered, his thoughts concentrated on the enemy that had attacked his Pack. Prey, he snarled, Prey. Prey of my Pack.

She let her human self sink, let the other mind rise, and snarled a demand.

Enough! Submit! I am Alpha!

Watching her features change, Third Guy fainted.

The demand was enough to call off the dog. Boss man gasped in relief as the animal – it was a German Shepherd, he could see now, huge and savage – backed off. She made her way to stand over him, the dog at her side still growling with bared teeth, his blood clotting in its fur.

"What the fuck… did I ever… do to you?" she grated out in a heavy accent.

He coughed, and laughed at her. "You're prey, sweetheart," he smirked, "You can call yourself a Hunter if you like, but you're prey." He let his head fall back. "Go away and heal up," he told her with a smile, "You're practically worthless in that condition."

"Don't come after me again," she hissed at him, "This was just me trying to be… polite. Next time, I might not be so… civilised."

"Next time, I won't be so… careless," he told her.

"Just fuck off, you shit-head," she sighed. She called up her dog, and made to leave.

He was quick. He had his gun out of his belt the second her back was turned.

She was quicker. Before he could pull the trigger, she was there, slashing at his face with the knife. He howled in a combination of outrage and pain.

"Call that a howl?" she spat derisively. "That's not a howl. This is a howl."

She let her features change, threw back her head, and produced a long, keening, penetrating note that made him shudder.

"It could be worse," she told him, "Real wolves mark their prey by pissing on it. Do us both a favour. Don't come looking." She staggered out of the clearing, leaning on her dog.

Winchesters will be provided in the next chapter, along with swearing and conversation not fit for children or persons of refinement. Spankers, please to bring their own restraints and paddles. (Denizens: they're depraved, even if they do get shit done.)