"Hey Sam! Check these out!" Dean yelled from across the nearly empty costume store. Sam was busy rustling through stacks of whoopee cushions and other gag gifts to find what he was looking for.

"What Dean? I'm busy!" Sam replied back. The aging store clerk only sat behind his desk, paying little to no mind at these two strangers in his place of business. As he turned the pages of his newspaper, the clerk had no idea that these men were actually two hunters in search of one last necessary item for their ritual.

"Look Dean," a now frustrated Sam said as he approached his brother, careful to avoid too much attention from the store owner.

"It's late. We've been at this case for twenty hours straight. We haven't eaten since yesterday and, frankly, it's not my fault that this ritual calls for…for," Sam stopped to look at his grocery list of magical necessities, "for a freakin' 'feigned fang of weary wolf'. What the hell is that supposed to mean, again, anyway?"

Dean put down his new toy and reminded Sam, "It means we're looking for a fake werewolf fang, obviously." Dean rolled his eyes, picking up the item that had originally interested him. "It's a play on words, get it?"

Sam just ignored him.

"Well, just forget it. I'm having too much fun here anyway for you to spoil it," Dean said, putting on a pair of brown, fuzzy claws that he had discovered.

"Hey Sam!" he called again. This time, Sam continued to walk away, his interest piqued by a sharp fang encased in plastic.

"Sam!" Dean continued. "Sammy! Wait!"

"Not now, Dean!" he called back.

"Just…look," Dean wasn't giving up.



"What?!" Sam finally gave in, turning around sharply.

Raising the pair of sharp-clawed costume gloves, Dean smiled and said through stifled chuckles, "I'm going to solve this case with my BEAR hands."

Sam simply stared in wonder at his walking enigma of a brother – a brother who had gone to hell and back, faced the hounds of hell straight on and managed to come back whole -- while Dean remained standing there, clawing the air with his 'paws.'

Through a toothy grin, Dean said, "Get it? Bear hands?"

No response.

"These are bear paws, Sam."

"Oh, I get it," Sam retorted, hardly amused.

"You see, 'cause I don't think you do -- "

"Shut up, Dean, we're done here. Let's go."

Putting on a forced look of offense, Dean was about to open his mouth, but for once decided against it. Sam shoved past him, throwing the plastic fang onto the counter for purchase. The store owner peered up so his eyes showed just past his green visor hat.

"Do you have enough to buy those claws too, son?" the old man said in a voice older than the dust gathering around him. Sam grabbed the fuzzy claw gloves, staring his brother down to stop Dean from having a chance to reply. Dean could almost hear Sam screaming in his head, Don't even think about it.

"Enough money, you ask?" Dean snickered, a hint of defiance in his voice. "Well, I have it, I think, but just bearly."

Dean laughed so hard that he nearly fell on his way out of the store, clutching in his hands a plastic bag that held his favorite new pair of gloves.