*** Special Bonus Feature! ***

Since this story is set in an AU of an AU, I thought we might try something a little bit different, so, for the unsavoury rumination of The Denizens, The Jimiverse presents...

A fairytale from the Were!chester Jimiverse

entitled:

LITTLE RED RIDING HELMET

*HEALTH WARNING: **Anyone who is not a depraved beldame may wish to read this chapter with their eyes shut to avoid discombobulation, or skip down about three-quarters of the way, or just avoid it altogether. It's up to you, but I'd just like to warn everybody that after I wrote it, I had to get up to wash my hands.***

Once upon a time, in a fanfic AU AU, there were two brothers named Dean and Sam Winchester. They were Hunters, the best that the Jimiverse had ever known. They lived in a house on the edge of the Forest Fanfic, a strange and wonderful place that could by turns be magical, wonderful or downright discombobulating, if not outright terrifying. They were as different as they could be, but they lived there happily together, when they weren't Hunting, and regularly visited their dear old Uncle Robert, who lived on the other side of the Forest Fanfic, and loved his adopted boys dearly. He often warned them of the perils of the Forest Fanfic, and told them tales of the terrible creatures that could be found in the deepest part of the woods.

"There's all sorts o' strange things," he intoned ominously, "Like shippers, and fickriters, and fangirls, and depraved beldames, and," his voice would drop to a hushed whisper, "Denizens. So you idjits be careful when you're in the forest. And never, never run through the woods nekkid."

Because, you see, the special thing about the Winchesters was that they were Old North Werewolves, so they were quite blasé about actually wearing clothes, as Old North wolves are. In fact, most of the time they didn't bother to wear anything except board shorts, because the fickriter couldn't handle the idea of writing them completely naked all the time, even though they would complain that they were never naked, they just sometimes didn't have any clothes on.

One day, it was a beautiful sunny day, so Sam set out for his morning run along the edge of the forest on two legs (which he liked to do) a bit early. Nonetheless, by the time he got back, he was very hot and sweaty. He stood in the yard of the house, magnificent chest heaving as he got his breath back (because Sam always ran shirtless, being a werewolf), small trails of perspiration making their way down his broad, well-muscled back to disappear into the waistband of his running shorts. He flicked his luxuriant man-mane out of his eyes and ran a hand through it, and looked around for his brother.

Dean (who preferred to do his running on four legs) was working on his beloved car. She was his pride and joy, and although she was quite old he put a lot of work into keeping her in peak condition. He was under the hood, working on the engine: the muscles in his forearms corded as he wielded the torque wrench, sweat popping out on his chest to trickle down his stomach and v-lines to soak into the waist of his threadbare cut-off jeans as they barely clung on to his hips.

Sam picked up a bottle of water from the battered refrigerator sitting outside the shed Dean used as a workshop for Baby, and took a deep drink, then upended some of it over his head, where it dribbled down over him and made his hair even wetter and his nipples even perkier. "Brrrr, that's cold," the observed.

"That's because it's been in the refrigerator," Dean rolled his eyes and screwed up his nose as he lowered the hood. "You stink."

"I've just been for a run," Sam pointed out, throwing a bottle of water to Dean, who dribbled at least as much as he drank down his chin and his chest, making his nipples perky too, "So it's not my fault if I'm a bit sweaty."

"Well, go wash," instructed Dean, wiping one arm across his face, and leaving a greasy mark across his beautifully sculpted high cheekbone.

"What about you?" protested Sam. "You're all dirty from working on the car."

"I gotta give my Baby a bath," Dean shrugged, "So I'll wash me at the same time."

"Won't that be cold?" worried Sam, "I mean, how perky can one guy's nipples get?"

Dean smiled broadly, and stretched out his shoulders to reveal the definition in his lats. "I'm so hot I won't even notice," he grinned infuriatingly.

"Jerk," muttered Sam, heading into the house and upstairs to the bathroom, where he threw his sweaty shorts into the hamper and headed for the shower.

It was the sort of bathroom that SeaglassGreen might've designed: it had a double wide shower, and a large spa tub in the corner, and was tastefully decorated with white tiling and understated fittings. Sam opened the door in the shower screen, which was full length glass that would coincidentally allow any reader to see everything that was going on in there, and started the water running.

He let out a sigh, putting down his head to let the hot water splash over his tall, buff body, rolling his shoulders so that the broad expanse of manflesh looked like a couple of baby seals romping inside an oiled and tanned bag made from the hide of a prized thoroughbred stallion. Then he picked up his loofah, and his bottle of low-allergen body wash in a fragrance named 'Call Of The Wild', and let the thick scented liquid run down his body with a small moan of ablutional enjoyment, because Sam liked being clean, and the depraved beldames liked the idea of him making noises like that whilst soaping himself up. As he slowly started to scrub at his own squee-inducing torso, the fickriter chickened out and the glass fogged up, leaving the readers to use their imaginations to fill in what was going on in there and no doubt fantasising scenarios that the fickriter couldn't even think of.

Meanwhile, in the yard, Dean filled a bucket with soapy water, took a sponge, and lovingly began to wash his car. There was a lot of car to wash, and by the time he'd finished lovingly cleaning every last panel, he was also covered in suds from the bucket. The rivulets of soapy water ran down his bare skin, soaking his shorts so that they clung to him to reveal the outline of his body. When he'd finished, he kicked off his shorts, upended the rest of the soapy water over himself, and began to run the sponge up and down his arms, up and down, up and down, up and down…

And then his phone rang.

By the time Sam came down from the bathroom, Dean was in the kitchen, wearing an apron that disappointingly covered his chest but left his toned back completely visible and mixing ingredients in a bowl. "Are you making cookies?" he asked his big brother.

"Yep," answered Dean, taste-testing some chocolate chips, "I had a call from our dear Uncle Robert, who is practically a father to us. He's not well – he has a bit of a cold, and wanted us to know that he might not be able to join us for our usual run under the full moon."

"Oh, but that's terrible!" said Sam, his puppy-dog eyes filling with concern, "We must go to him, and check on him immediately!"

"Exactly," noted Dean, "So, I'm making some of my awesome chocolate chip cookies, to cheer him up."

"That's a great idea," smiled Sam, "Your chocolate chip cookies could make somebody with bubonic plague feel better."

"They are good, aint they?" Dean grinned, looking up with a little smear of chocolate at the corner of his mouth that a depraved beldame would just kill to lick off, then his tongue darted out and ran slowly around his full pink lips. "Mmmmmm, chocolate."

The brothers waited impatiently for the cookies to bake, until finally there was batch of golden cookies waiting to be delivered.

"Ohhhh, they're so good when they're still warm," Sam hummed happily, cramming one into his mouth.

"We should take then to Uncle Robert while they're still warm," declared Dean.

Sam looked worried. "But by the time we get there, they will be cold," he pointed out, "It's a long drive around the Forest Fanfic.

"So, we'll go through the forest," suggested Dean.

"They'll still be cold by the time we get there," Sam noted.

"Not if we go on four legs," countered Dean.

Sam let out a little gasp. "But, but, Uncle Robert cautioned us never to run through the forest in wolf form," he reminded his brother. He said, never, never run through the forest naked."

"We won't be naked," Dean declared loftily, wrapping some cookies in a bright cheerful dishcloth and putting them into a basket, "We just won't have any clothes on."

Sam was a bit concerned, but then the thought of their poor dear Uncle Robert feeling poorly all by himself, and how happy he would be to be cheered up by chocolate cookies, made him agree to his brother's plan. "All right, then," he said, "We should go right away, so they are still deliciously warm when we get there."

So, the brothers shucked out of their shorts, headed into the yard, and shapeshifted to their wolf forms. Dean picked up the basket in his mouth, and they followed the path that led into the Forest Fanfic.

The forest could be a dark, foreboding place, but the brothers ran swiftly through the trees on four legs, loping along easily, the sunlight skittering through the canopy to dapple their thick, furry pelts.

They were about halfway to dear Uncle Robert's house when they broke into a clearing, and saw a strange sight.

In the middle of the clearing was a sofa. Behind the sofa was a motorcycle. On the sofa sat two dogs, and a woman in a red full-face helmet. She had a laptop open, and was typing away. As the Winchesters entered the clearing, the dogs bounded up to them to say hello, and try to wheedle cookies, but the woman called them back, then cocked an eyebrow at them.

They changed back to human, because their dear Uncle Robert had taught then manners (practically at knifepoint sometimes in Dean's case.)

"Good morning," said Sam.

The woman flipped up the visor of her helmet. "Good morning, Sam Winchester," she greeted him.

"Good morning," said Dean.

"Good morning, Dean Winchester," she greeted him.

"You know our names," Sam mused, "But I don't think we've ever met you before."

"Very few characters in this verse do," she smiled through the front of her helmet. "My name is Little Red Riding Helmet."

"How do you do," said Sam politely, nudging Dean, who was staring at the bike behind the sofa.

"Oh, yeah, uh, how do you do," Dean echoed. At another nudge from Sam, he proffered the basket. "Would you like a cookie?"

"Yes, thank you," Little Red Riding Helmet smiled, taking one and somehow managing to eat it through her helmet. "These are very good."

"What are you doing in the middle of the Forest Fanfic?" asked Sam.

"And how did you get a sofa and a motorcycle here?" queried Dean. "Incidentally, is that the '05 model, or the '06 SV?"

"I can do many strange things," the woman told him, "For I am a fickriter. The '06, but I got one a bit early as a special favour from a dealership I've patronized for many years now."

Sam gasped and drew back, but Dean just stared at her. "Why are you sittin' on the sofa with your helmet on?" he wanted to know.

"It's narrative causality," she shrugged. "The whole idiom of the story would collapse if I didn't wear something red on my head, and this is all I've got. It's my old one, I wear a Shoei these days, after Arai changed their mouldings and they don't fit me properly any more, but it does the job from the plot development perspective."

"Dean, we should go," Sam told his brother, "Fickriters can be dangerous."

"Yes, they can," the woman nodded, "But they can also be helpful. And because you have done a good turn to me, I shall give you some good advice. And that is: never, never run through the Forest Fanfic naked."

"That's just what our dear Uncle Robert says," noted Dean.

"He is a wise man, and you would do well to heed him," warned the fickriter, "For dreadful things may befall buff young men who run naked through this perilous place. Turn back now. Go home, and take your beloved Impala to visit your dear Uncle Robert."

"But the cookies will be cold!" complained Dean, pouting most adorably.

"Better cold cookies than a warm custard tub," intoned the fickriter cryptically.

"We must get to him as quickly as possible!" stated Sam.

"Better to linger in the car than linger in the bus," the fickriter said in a wary tone.

The Winchesters looked confused, but didn't worry too much: their dear Uncle Robert had told them that fickriters were mysterious creatures who sometimes said things so strange that even native speakers of English couldn't make heads or tails of what they were banging on about.

"Perhaps we should go back," said Sam uncertainly.

"Sam, she's a fickriter," Dean reassured him, "Our dear Uncle Robert has said that they sometimes say strange things, strangely, in a very strange way."

"But her spelling and grammar are adequate," Sam pointed out, "And she seems coherent…"

"We must get to dear Uncle Robert," Dean said firmly, "Thank you for your advice, but we must continue our journey."

"That is of course your prerogative," the fickriter nodded in acknowledgement, then she returned to her sofa and picked up her laptop once more. The Winchesters shapeshifted back to their lupine forms, and headed back onto the path, continuing through the forest.

Meanwhile, Uncle Robert had been having a nice hot lemon drink when he heard a large diesel engine stop outside his house, so he went out to see who it was.

A large bus had stopped outside his gate, and a man with a peaked cap reading DON'T TOUCH THE DRIVER was peering down worriedly at the rear axles.

"Can I help you?" asked Uncle Robert."

"Hello," said the man, "I am The Driver, and I am worried about Das Bus. It's losing transmission fluid again, but only when I park it on a slope. As you are a Man Of Knowledge, could I ask your assistance?"

"Let's have a look," gruffed Uncle Robert, bending down to peer under Das Bus. "How long has this been happenin' for?"

As they talked, they didn't notice the door of Das Bus slowly and quietly open, and shadowy figures make their way out and silenty file into Uncle Robert's house.

The Winchesters finally arrived at Uncle Robert's back yard, since his house backed onto the Forest Fanfic, and shifted back to human. "See?" scoffed Dean, "I told you nothing bad would happen. And, the cookies are still warm."

"You were right, Dean," conceded Sam, "Now, let's go and see our poor unwell dear Uncle Robert."

"We can go in through the back door, and surprise him!" grinned Dean, opening the gate and making his way to the house, followed by his brother.

They made their way into the house and headed for dear Uncle Robert's bedroom. The old man was in bed, covers drawn up to his chin, his trucker's cap pulled down over his eyes.

"Oh, Uncle Robert!" said Sam, wringing his hands, "Are you so sick that light hurts your eyes? It's a common symptom of the flu."

"I'm just a bit photophobic, idjit," rumbled Uncle Robert in a voice that didn't sound at all like his usual voice. "Come closer so that I may see you better."

"Oh, Uncle Robert!" said Dean, "We were so worried about you! Your voice sounds dreadful. Is your throat sore?"

"I'm just a bit hoarse, idjit," said Uncle Robert. "Come closer so that I may speak to you better."

"Oh, Uncle Robert!" said Sam. "Look at you all wrapped up in so many blankets – it looks like there's a dozen people in that bed!"

"I'm just a bit shivery, idjit," said Uncle Robert. "Come closer so that I may warm up better."

"Oh, Uncle Robert!" said Dean, "We are so glad to see you! We have brought you some cookies. Still warm from the oven. To make you feel better."

"You, uh, I mean they, look delicious," slavered Uncle Robert, "Bring them closer, so I may NIBBLE ON YOU BETTER!"

With that, the covers of the bed were thrown back, and the Winchesters realised that it was not their dear Uncle Robert in the bed – it was a swarm of Denizens!

"Help! Help!" yipped Sam as they swarmed around him.

"Ooooh! Aaaargh! Yeeeeep! Mind the merchandise!" yapped Dean, as the Denizens grabbed him.

"OMG they're naked!" squeed the Denizens.

"We're not naked!" protested Sam.

"We just don't have any clothes on!" corrected Dean.

"We don't care, that'll suit us just fine!" giggled the Denizens. "Ladies, to the custard tub!"

"Oh no!" wailed Sam, as he was hustled out of Uncle Robert's house, "We should've listened to our dear Uncle Robert!"

"Sonofabitch!" yelped Dean, as the swarm of Denizens herded him after his brother, "We should've listened to the fickriter Little Red Riding Helmet!"

There was splashing, squealing, giggling, slurping and some screaming from Das Bus as it began to rock on the suspension.

"I see you upgraded the shocks to heavy duty," Bobby noted.

"It was one of the first mods I made," The Driver told him. "You'd be amazed at how heavy a full tubload of custard is." He peered up at the bus; something battery-powered came sailing out of a window. "This could take a while. I bring a book. And earplugs."

"Why don't we go inside," Uncle Robert suggested, "I got coffee brewing, and I can smell cookies." So Uncle Robert and The Driver went back inside, and discussed possible causes for the intermittent leaking of transmission fluid over coffee and cookies.

Later there was a knock at the door: Uncle Robert found the Winchesters, looking shell-shocked but scrubbed pinkly clean and wearing little bandanas around their necks, standing on his doorstep. Das Bus was silent. The Driver thanked him for the coffee, headed back onto Das Bus, and it drove away.

Uncle Robert herded the Winchesters inside. "Let me guess, he sighed, "You went runnin' through the Forest Fanfic nekkid."

"Meeeeeeep," went Dean.

"And you ran into a fickriter, didn't you?" he went on.

"Meeeeeeep," went Sam.

Uncle Robert shook his head. "Idjits, the pair of ya," he grumbled, "Let this be a lesson to you. Listen to your wise old Uncle Robert when he tells you somethin'. And never do anythin' that might insult, offend or otherwise piss off a fickriter, like ignore her when she gives you good advice."

"Meeeeeep," went the Winchesters.

Uncle Robert shook his head. "Go put some britches on, idjits," he instructed them, "You keep enough of your stuff here. Then I'll drive you home." While they got dressed, he carefully put down a line of brussels sprouts across his front door, because you can never be too careful when there is a fickriter about, and drove his boys back to their house.

That night, Sam and Dean shared a bed, clinging to each other for comfort, trying not to think about the dreadful monsters that lived in the Forest Fanfic.

And they never went running naked through the forest again.

Well, not for a while, anyway.

THE END

So, that's finally the proverbial it for this story. So now, it's back to Fergus, the plot bunny dictating 'The Streaker's Defence', and Imogen-Bubba too, the bunny dictating 'On Yer Bike'. Unless any other little furry bastards come along. There are no other bunnies in the pen at the moment, but that may change – do the Denizens have any to send? Don't draw out the agony; if I've missed a fanfic trope that you think the Jimiverse should include, just send your bunny.

Meanwhile, also send reviews, because Reviews Are The Delicious Still-Warm Cookies Brought To You By The Winchester* Of Your Choice Through The Forest Of Life!

*Wearing pants. Because of health regulations. And squeamishness on my part.