Disclaimer: The story is mine but Dean, Sam, and anything else you're familiar with cannot be credited to me.

Even Bad Wolves Can Be Good

Once upon a time a girl was walking alone through the wilderness. This wilderness resembled nothing of the spooky woods or haunted hollows popular in movies and television shows. No, this wilderness was made dark and scary not by trees and the soft howl of the wind. It was dark because the smoke floating around the ceiling muted the fluorescent lights and it was scary because there was a tension in the atmosphere. It was a tension created by the interactions between predators and prey.

These predators were wolves of a sort, athough not of the average canine family. These predators were far more dangerous, and--though their intelligence was often questioned—they were crafty creatures, they could entice their prey with nothing more than a charming smile and a few compliments.

And in the midst of this pack of ravenous creatures was the girl in red.

Angie tucked her change into her back pocket as she wrapped her hands around the cold glass bottles. She shifted the bottles in her grasp until her left hand had both of them and her right held only the pliable aluminum can of her soda. She maneuvered her way carefully through the crowd, pushing past men wearing too much aftershave and women not wearing enough of anything.

Reflecting on the how the women managed to survive with so little clothing in the harsh elements—seriously, it was like ten degrees outside and there was a fresh layer of snow covering everything and these girls were wearing halter tops and skirts that barely crested the curves of their backsides. The bass from the jukebox made the floor pulse beneath her feet and Angie murmured along with Paul Rodgers, she just loved Bad Company.

Angie finally made it to the table in the corner. Sam sat alone, the click of the laptop's keys his only company. Though, that was a self-imposed solitude if Angie had interpreted the curvaceous blonde at the next table's look correctly. Both genders had their wolves.

Angie slid onto the stool that made her feel like a dwarf or maybe a toddler, as her feet swung freely. Nudging Sam with her shoulder she passed him one of the bottles of beer. She smiled when he didn't even look away from the screen, just reached out a hand and waited for her to push the glass against his palm. Angie sat the second bottle on a coaster near the empty stool. She didn't need to look around the crowded room to know that The Wolf was on the prowl. Looked like Dean wasn't going to be back until tomorrow morning, which meant she had the bed all to herself. She her lips curved as she brought her drink to her lips, those pillows were all hers.

Angie picked up the first newspaper within reach. She didn't feel much like researching, so she sifted through the pages until she found the comic section. She sipped her Sprite and smiled at the Garfield comic, that cat was a definite cynic. She wasn't really, she'd say she was an optimistic realist—which was probably an oxymoron but it worked for her. She was halfway through the Peanuts strip when her alarms went off and a mental speaker phone announced that someone had invaded her personal space.

The sickly sweet smell of cologne drifted past her nose and it took every ounce of her control not to sneeze. Shaking her head to clear her russet bangs from her vision she glanced upward, way upward. She was fairly certain that the guy was taller than Sam by the time her eyes came into contact with his.

"Hi." Of it's own accord her head tilted towards her left shoulder to keep her neck from cramping. "I'm Damon." A large hand was extended in her direction and she blinked at it awkwardly. She released the newsprint and slid her hand into his.

"I'm Angie, nice to meet you." Traveling with the Winchester brothers had made her extremely aware of them at all times, so the minute Sam's eyes settled on her, she could feel it like a physical touch. "This is Sam." She released the warm hand to gesture at the brunette seated on her left. Sam nodded at the guy, studying him carefully, warily—playing the part of chaperone. With a mental laugh at Sam's reaction Angie turned to Damon, "Did you need something," then she glanced at her paper, "Sports section, maybe?"

The man's smile was wide, and when he laughed he revealed the sharpest eyeteeth Angie had ever seen in a human mouth. "No, actually I was wondering if I could buy you a drink, but you must be the designated driver tonight." The large hand motioned towards the small green can sitting in a pool of condensation on the table.

"Oh, I'm not the designated driver. I just don't drink very often." A wicked smile spread across his face. "So can you be persuaded?" The expression on her face must have been interpreted as confused because he hastily explained. "I mean, could you be persuaded to have a drink with me."

She had no idea why she looked to Sam—maybe she just wanted to know what he thought, or maybe she was asking for permission to abandon him. She wasn't sure. Either way, she never got a chance to respond because the Big Bad Wolf himself came striding over—invading her space more thoroughly than anyone ever had, and dropping a heavy arm on her shoulders.

"Hey, guys." Dean glanced at Sam quickly, no doubt communicating in that nonverbal way—Angie seriously wondered if Sam was telepathic sometimes. Then he focused on the newcomer, eying Damon and even though he was projecting nonchalance Dean's muscles were stiff against her neck. Angie made a mental note to ask him what was wrong later, before she inclined her head in Damon's direction. "Dean this is Damon, Damon this is Dean."

Damon smiled stiffly and muttered a 'Hello,' and Dean managed to make his 'Hi' sound smug. "I got your beer, Dean, but it's probably warm by now." She could feel the elder Winchester's nod as it rippled through his shoulder and then his arm.

"Speaking of beer, how about that drink, Angie?" Damon smiled politely. Angie returned his smile and was about to accept the offer when Dean frowned.

"No."

Three heads turned to stare at Dean. Sam looked like he thought this was funny, Angie looked confused and partially angry, and Damon just looked incredulous.

"No? Dean…"

A stern glare cut Angie off. "Listen Ange, babe. I know you're mad at me, but come on, sweetheart. I said I was sorry." Dark eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. There was a 'huh' on the tip of her tongue ready to jump off, when her tongue was otherwise distracted. Her body froze, her eyes flew wide, and her head jerked backwards only to be stopped by the strong muscle behind her neck. Dean tasted like sour alcohol and salty pretzels, and his lips were smooth and soft like the worn leather of his jacket. Full lips moved purposefully, coaxing hers to move as well. The shock ebbed from her body, but his lips were already gone.

His face was so close her eyes ached. He grinned wolfishly and moved away from her, circling the table he slid fluidly onto his stool. The sweating brown bottle was lifted with ease and tilted against the lips she'd just been touching, tasting. Damon was gone.

She had a sudden understanding of exactly how Lil' Red must have felt. Bewildered and definitely seduced. The gray paper spread out on the table no longer had the ability to draw her attention and the green can didn't have what she wanted inside it's metallic depths. Flicking her tongue across her tingling lips she slid from the leather stool, exhaling when the soft soles of her sneakers touched the shabby linoleum of the floor. Unsteady hands pulled the bottom of her hoodie down over the waistline of her jeans, a nervous habit. Then one moved up to run through her bangs, pushing them out of her sight—first thing tomorrow she was going to the nearest Salon. "I'm gonna head back to the room, okay?" Not waiting for an answer, she started moving through the crowd, which—if possible—had grown denser. Two sets of hazel eyes watched her as she left, one pair quickly diverted their attention to glare at the other person. Dean sighed beneath Sammy's gaze.

The hunter was up and moving before he even realized where he was going.

-X-

It's situations like this that you're supposed to avoid. The body knows this isn't something you should be intentionally doing, wandering through the woods alone--okay, so they aren't exactly the woods, more like a large park, but in the dark it was woodsy enough to be discomfiting. As if your body's innate programming—instincts honed by the early humans living in the bush with the very creatures that stalked them—isn't enough to keep you from doing it, the scary movies—starring some young girl getting killed by something big and hairy—lining the shelves of the Blockbuster should.

For someone like Angela West, this situation was her version of normal. She is alert as her feet move, the crunch of snow beneath her soles accompanied by the creak of bare branches above her head. Huffing, she burrows a bit deeper into her sweater, attempting to return feeling to her nose. There's a loud snap somewhere to her right and her body automatically whips in that direction, hand slipping from the warmth of her pocket to the base of her spine. Fingers curl around the cold handle of her Glock 17 and her muscles relax with the familiarity of it.

Dark eyes scan the area, searching for movement. A shadow shifts and her gaze narrows in on it.

Her steps are measured as she continues along the path. Suddenly, her spine tingles and she stops dead in her tracks.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't Little Red Riding Hood." Angie's breath whooshes past her lips and she turns around. She glances down at her hoodie and then quirks an eyebrow.

"How original, what are you doing out here?" The smile spread across his face is definitely predatory.

"Didn't your mamma warn you about walking through the woods alone, Angie?" She knows that he's toying with her, trying to lull her with his ridiculous banter; but his body is rigid and something about his presence just strikes her as off.

"I'm a big girl, I can handle myself." His eyes are shadowed but the flicker of his lashes says that he's studying her.

"Even big girls shouldn't go walking in the woods alone. Guess it's fortunate for you that you have me to escort you." Dark eyes flit from side to side, analyzing her surroundings and quickly compiling at least three different exits.

"Thank you, but I'm sure I'll be fine."

The smile faded around the edges. "Come now, I insist."

Her feet began moving backwards and she shook her head. "No, really it's not much farther."

The smile disappeared and the wolf pounced. Backpedaling in the snow was tough but she managed to move far enough, fast enough, to give herself enough time to pull her gun out. His eyes widened comically, but the situation was anything but funny. Maybe if Red had been packing the story would have ended very differently.

He stood shocked for a minute, stunned that she'd pulled a gun on him, then there was nothing but movement. He moved fast, too fast, usually people didn't attack you when you had a gun drawn. He was obviously crazy. Angela could feel the snow that slipped up the back of her sweater, but she was to busy trying to push the heavy weight off and get back to her feet.

A head butt had blood dripping onto her face, and a knee to the guy's side did nothing but make him shift his position over her. She attempted a few basic maneuvers for dislodging an assailant and a few non-basic ones as well, the guy wasn't budging. It was moments like this that Angie realized it sucked being a woman, mostly just because it usually meant being smaller. She was starting to seriously panic when the body was hauled off her.

She was on her feet as quickly as possible, eyes flicking over the snow searching for the silver gleam of her gun and watching her rescuer land a punch that had Damon sprawled out in the snow. The metal was wet and cold when she plucked it from the snow. It probably wouldn't be a good idea to try and use it because if the barrel was blocked with snow then it would pretty much explode, but it could be fixed. She slid the weapon back into her waistband shivering at the touch of frigid metal, before she decided to be the hero. Grabbing a fist full of leather she leaned back, letting her weight do what her arms probably couldn't.

Dean's head whipped around and his eyes were burning. The guy was still where he lay on the ground. He considered her, eyes dark, and then he stepped forward.

A callused hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing away the blood, smearing it. Angie smiled when she realized he was looking for an injury. She slipped her arms beneath the leather of his coat, sliding between the cotton of his button-up and his T-shirt. It was a damsel-in-distress thing to do, but she really needed to feel safe. When strong arms wrapped around her back and all she could breathe was the smell of leather and the fresh scent of detergent, the feeling washed over her, comforting and familiar.

They made it back to the motel in silence. Angie knew a well-intentioned, patronizing, overprotective lecture was brewing behind the blank expression on his face and she had every intention of listening to it, but first she needed to get the blood cleaned off her face—one never knew what diseases could be caught. Her sweater was probably ruined as she doubted even Sam, laundryman extraordinaire, could get the blood out. It had already turned an icky shade of brown. Usually it wouldn't have bothered her—she'd lost tons of clothes to bloodstains, claw marks, and the occasional gunshot hole—but this particular sweater was her favorite. She tossed the red garment onto the counter, not ready to give up hope until Sam got a chance to work his magic. The rag she used to wash her face could have used that magic touch, that or heaps of fabric softener; it felt like sandpaper against her face.

Angie walked back into the bedroom, hair loose and face clean. The only evidence that anything untoward had happened was the stormy expression on Dean's face and his posture. He was leaning on his arms, each elbow resting on a thigh, his head bent, eyes focused on his hands.

She settled on the bed across from him, the space between the two beds was minimal, so she decided to sit cross-legged. She waited for the tirade, waited for him to tell her she needed to be more careful, more aware. She waited for him to say she was incompetent and that if she couldn't take care of a single overly amorous guy, then she had no business hunting the things they hunted. She waited for him to tell her that they—he did not need someone to baby-sit and that it was time for her to leave. She waited for him to say it even though she already knew it to be true.

Her spine stiffened when he exhaled and she inhaled deeply, readying herself. "I'm sorry."

Her head snapped up, mouth falling open and eyes blinking in surprise. "Wha? why? Dean—"

"I was an asshole, Angie. I shouldn't have kissed you, but," he sat up and ran a hand through his hair. Their eyes locked, "I made you leave, I'm sorry."

Her head shook so viciously her hair flew into her mouth; she had to spit it out so she could speak. "Dean, I should have been more aware of my surroundings. I shouldn't have let him get the drop on me; it was my fault, not yours." They stared at each other, but when Dean opened his mouth to say something else, Angie slapped a hand over his lips. "How about we just agree that we both made mistakes, okay?" He nodded, but she kept her hand over his mouth.

"Thank you." There was a crease between his eyebrows. "I know it sucks having to look after me, but I really appreciate it." She removed her hand, ignoring the wet heat on her palm from his breath.

"Yeah, well, I seem to remember you saving me once or twice, so…" his voice trailed off, but he shrugged and she smiled. They were calling it even, good. A thick finger entered her line of sight. "Just try avoiding guys like that in the future."

She gaped at him and he smiled widely. "I didn't do anything! It wasn't like I put up a flashing neon sign that said 'attack me, please.'" He chuckled lowly, "trust me, that sweater was enough."

Her smile remained even though the thought of her ruined sweater dampened her humor. "There is nothing wrong with my sweater." She crossed her arms over her chest and glared playfully.

"No, there isn't, but dontcha know that the color red attracts predators." He was mock serious.

She licked her lips and grinned, "No, it doesn't. It didn't affect you." He considered her, a single brow arched.

"Are you saying I'm a predator, An."

"Mm hmm, you're a big bad wolf." He looked pointedly at her shirt, his look rapacious.

"Does that make you Little Red T-shirt?" She laughed and plucked at her scarlet sleeve, slipping it over her hand. "Yeah, well I fit the part. You know, the poor helpless little girl."

"Nah," he looked her in the eye, "you're not little." She gasped, pretending to be offended, but she couldn't help laughing.

"Yeah, well I'm pretty sure the wolf isn't supposed to save the damsel anyways. So I guess neither of us fit the part."

"Maybe saving you was just part of my evil plan. Haven't you ever heard of a wolf in sheep's clothing?" She giggled. "You're definitely not a sheep, Dean." Her giggling doubled when he 'baa'd.'

"God, this is the second time I've had a conversation about Little Red Riding Hood tonight. If Charles Perrault were still alive I'd hunt him down and shoot him in the kneecap. That is if I could manage to keep a hold of my gun." She pulled said weapon out of her waistband and laid it on the bed, laughing dryly.

Dean shrugged, face serious. "Everyone fucks up every once in a while."

Her lip was thick between her teeth as she bit it; she grinned and laughed. "Yeah, like when you kissed me."

Shit. He was silent, she'd crossed the line. A silent Dean meant an angry Dean. She should have known better than to bring up something he saw as a mistake, one that had nearly gotten her hurt. She pushed forward and her feet fell to the rough carpet. She looked up into his face and put a hand on his shoulder, steadying herself to apologize and reassure him that it wasn't his fault. "Dean—"

She wasn't anymore prepared the second time than she was the first time. This kiss was different though, this one was passionate, purposeful. His perfect lips were curving against hers again and this time she had a chance to respond in kind. His hands burned even through her clothing, scorching her skin. One slipped up her back, following the line of her spine, and buried itself in her hair, the other gripped her waist.

When he tried to pull away, she followed him, her lips seeking his. He mumbled something against her lips, but she was too busy climbing into his lap to care. It was either 'it wasn't a mistake' or 'I want a steak.' Knowing Dean—and his appetite—it was probably the latter.

Dean groaned into her mouth when her hand slid beneath his shirts to stroke his back. With the grace of a hunter, Dean managed to twist and get her beneath him, pressed into the firm mattress. He pulled back and grabbed the hem of her shirt. "Let's see what Red wears under that shirt." Even though she was breathing heavily, Angie managed to snicker at his corniness.

Then he was peeling her shirt over her head and she wasn't laughing anymore. His breath was like fire licking the pale skin of her stomach, she was arching into the burn and pulling away from it at the same time. Hands grappled with the jacket she coveted, trying to slide it down, but her arms were too short. She made a frustrated noise, which made Dean sit up and slide both his jacket and his over-shirt off, letting them slide to the floor. Lips curved gleefully, while a small hand grasped the worn grey cotton of his shirt and tugged until his perfectly bowed lips were once again within reach.

One rough hand was slipping between her back and the floral comforter, fingers toying with the clasp of her bra; when suddenly, the door opened letting in a gush of cold air. Angie squeaked embarrassingly and pulled Dean down to cover her bare skin. She buried her blushing face into the side of his neck.

Sam was standing just inside the door gawking at the two of them—his face a scarlet that would make even Lil' Red envious, staining his cheeks. Dean groaned in frustration and glared at his kid brother. Angie shivered as the cold air brushed across the exposed skin of her arms.

"Dude, close the door." Sam opened and shut his mouth before he turned and pushed the door closed.

Dean grabbed the edge of the comforter and dragged it up. He handed the fabric to Angie and she quickly wrapped it around herself. He smirked down at her, tossing her a careless wink, before sitting up on his knees eyes searching for her shirt. He gathered the fabric from the other side of the bed and handed it to her wordlessly; watching in amusement as she disappeared beneath the blanket.

Sam shifted uncomfortably by the door; his gaze fixed on the ancient television, the fading wallpaper, the tacky art, anything but them. Angie dropped the blanket after she slipped her shirt back on, thankful for the long sleeves.

There was an awkward silence.

"Does this make Sammy the Woodcutter?" The mischievous glint in Dean's hazel eyes, the random comment, and the strangeness of the situation had Angie laughing until her eyes watered. Dean just smirked and Sam still looked uncomfortable and bemused.

"I guess," Angie said once she'd calmed down enough to speak. But when a wicked thought entered her mind she leaned towards Dean and whispered, "Although the Woodcutter's supposed to save Red after she's been eaten."

END.

Moral: Children, especially attractive, well bred young ladies, should never talk to strangers, for if they should do so, they may well provide dinner for a wolf. I say "wolf," but there are various kinds of wolves. There are also those who are charming, quiet, polite, unassuming, complacent, and sweet, who pursue young women at home and in the streets. And unfortunately, it is these gentle wolves who are the most dangerous ones of all. Directly from the text of the Perrault version.

-X-

A/N: This was influenced by the Perrault, Grimm, and Bowling for Soup versions of Lil' Red and her riding hood. I'm not sure what it is exactly, maybe a crack fic.

A huge thank you to my Beta, feralpixc, for her help. Love and Chocolate covered Ackles', because eating a chocolate Jensen might give me nightmares, I'd rather lick him ;D.

Uhh, yeah…