Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. Written for fun, not profit.

Notes: For this story, Sam is 17 and Dean is 21. This is not a Buffy the Vampire Slayer crossover, but our boys did grow up while Buffy was airing. This was written for the Live Journal community SPN-BigPretzel (which promotes lighter, more humorous SPN fanworks) Halloween Reverse Micro Bang and is based on a piece of art by Dizzojay.

Sam huffed. This wasn't fair. And it wasn't his fault. And his brother shouldn't be growling because it was his own stupid choice to go to the stupid party to begin with. He thought about stopping in defiance, crossing his arms over his chest, and waiting for Dean to apologize for being a jerk, but he realized that he'd only fall behind if he did.

From a few feet behind his brother's steady march, he could hear Dean muttering under his breath—"Friggin' raised the kid…gave him extra servings his whole life, made sure he did his homework and brushed his teeth and found a girl to take to prom… and this is the thanks I get. That's just wonderful…"

"I'm sorry, okay? It's all they had left in our sizes!" Sam snapped.

Dean shot him a glare over one extra-round shoulder. "I gave you ten bucks and pointed you in the direction of the thrift shop—sheets, Sammy! You were supposed to get white sheets, so we could make friggin' togas! God, I knew I should have made you watch Animal House when you were twelve…"

Sam paused, self-consciously tugging at the snug, clinging black bodysuit he was wearing. "Oh. I thought you wanted us to make ghost costumes with the sheets." When Dean's glare didn't shift, Sam shrugged. "I didn't want to be a ghost," he mumbled.

Dean blinked. "And you thought a skeleton costume missing its mask was a great substitute?"

Okay, in retrospect, it was a bad purchase. Though, maybe not as awful as the one he'd grabbed for Dean. The other Winchester shifted his weight, his wide Jack-O-Lantern costume swaying slightly above his blue jean-clad legs as he moved. Until tonight, Sam hadn't even realized such a thing existed outside the infant-sized costumes, and this one looked at least a decade old. Its orange felt was faded to a sick, dirty shade of yellow, its painted black eye triangles and toothy grin cracked and peeling. And the hat…Jeeze, the hat, an orange blob with a stem and leaves sticking out of it was just hideous.

Yet, Dean, for all his grumbling, had slipped into it, of course, because that's what the job required, and heaven forbid he actually refuse to—

Sam winced, feeling just the slightest bit guilty about the costume now—the purchase might have been a passive aggressive form of punishment. After all, Dean had stopped him from working on an eight page research paper because of a hunt Dad called about…Sure, Dad was on a hunt two hundred miles away, so he couldn't take the job, and, in retrospect, showing up to a party to make sure some poor sap didn't mysteriously disappear was one of their easier gigs.

Sam sighed—in his defense, he hadn't told Dean to smear green camo paint on his cheeks to match the polyester leaves around his collar. "I'm sorry," he repeated, more softly. "I guess I was just a little nervous—this is my first college party."

The spark in Dean's eyes told him his brother recognized the lame excuse as a lie, but was taking the apology, never the less. "Yeah, yeah." Dean waved it off. "Just stick close to me, and I'll make sure none of the sorority chicks try to grab your funny bone. Actually, on second thought—"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Aren't we supposed to be concentrating on making sure nothing supernatural happens tonight? I mean, for the last thirty-five years, a college student has disappeared like clockwork every seventh year from this exact same party—how are we supposed to stop something like that while surrounded by drunk frat guys?"

Dean snorted. "Dude, if I knew how to stop it, we would have gone over that in the game plan. I'm still pretty sure it's the ghost of that Gunner kid, though. He died here seven years before the disappearances started, and we know how the spooks love their anniversaries, but we need keep our eyes peeled just in case we're wrong. Which means—"

"Stay sober," Sam filled in, having heard the same order three times now. "I know, Dean. I'm underage—I'm not going to get drunk, because I never get drunk. You were the spokesperson for underage drinking, remember?"

"Sure I do." Dean shook his head. "Which is why warning you."

"You should be the one worried about distractions. I've seen the way college girls dress up for Halloween, and you're kind of a horn dog."

Dean's eyes glazed over a moment, a small grin on his face as he spotted a group of sexy cats crossing the sidewalk in front of them. "God bless co-eds," he agreed. He shook it off, back to business. "Just remember what you're supposed to be doing, Sammy—make your rounds and soak in the gossip. Use those puppy dog eyes to your advantage and make sure no one notices me sweeping the house. My guess is, since Gunner was cremated back in the day, there's probably an object he's attached to inside the house. If we're lucky, we'll find it, snatch it for a quick salt 'n' burn, and be out of this place in time to catch the Halloween marathon."

"You've got Dad's EMF monitor?"

Dean patted his pumpkin torso. "It's in my stomach," he said, soberly. "I'm also storing a couple pounds of rock salt in this sucker—the costume wasn't an entire failure," he admitted. Then he smirked. "Granted, if we all turn into our costumes thanks to some zany Halloween-themed hocus pocus, we're both screwed."

"Why would that ever happen?" Sam frowned. "Wait, was that a Buffy reference?"

"Uh, no."

"Oh, God, it was!" Sam choked on the words when Dean's elbow 'brushed' against his side. It did little to deter him. "I can't believe you watch that…Does Dad know, because I thought he had some sort of vendetta against shows involved supernatural characters?"

Dean growled. "I don't 'watch' it. I saw a couple episodes when I was stuck in that cast last year—shut up!"

Sam snickered. "Sure. I believe you. Isn't here a good-guy vampire in that show?"

"What, you mean Angel or Spike, because both of them had their bad streaks and their—I mean, I heard their names in an episode and…Shut up, bitch."

Sam smirked, far too pleased with himself.

The brothers Winchester approached the Kappa Gamma Tau house for the second time in the past twenty minutes, drawn in like moths by the loud thud of music rattling the insides of the remodeled Victorian estate. Bodies moved, blocking the yellow glow spilling out from every window, and a pair of Raggedy Anne and Andy dolls stumbled out the front door, arm-in-arm, and holding their red plastic cups high in salute. The particularly big jock towering over the "Costumes Required" sign taped above the porch stairs gave the brothers a once-over before nodding, allowing them passage.

Sam and Dean shared a glance, neither deciding to comment on the fact that apparently the youngest of them could finally pass as a college student these days.

"In and out," Dean reminded, at the doorway, his voice swallowed by a spooky wail from the stereo.

Sam nodded, frowning out at the crowd of bodies and wrinkling his nose at the heavy odor of beer, pizza, and body odor. He really hoped Dean found the object quickly—this place was completely outside his comfort zone. "In and out, " he echoed.


Sam pulled the plastic cup away, slamming it down on the ping pong table victoriously, and closing his lips tight around the beer still sloshing around his mouth in a desperate hope that he wouldn't vomit it back up. The small group around him, mostly the other team, laughed and cheered, already moving to line up their next player, and he felt someone slap his back a bit too hard. He swallowed, hoping it stayed down, then forced the guy in the crab costume a tight smile.

"Nice job, dude!" someone called.

When Sam had agreed to play pong with his best lead on the long deceased Mike Gunner, he hadn't quite realized what he was getting into. As it turned out, he wasn't a very skilled beer pong player.

How he'd been the one left guzzling down three lukewarm beers in a row, he wasn't sure. "Uh, Donny, you were telling me…" Sam paused, steadying himself and refusing to believe he was well passed buzzed—he'd seen his dad and Dean put back twice as many drinks without blinking, damn it! He shook it off, moving past a Cleopatra to get closer to his new 'buddy'. "You were telling me about the guy who died when your brother was going to school here?"

The walking condom nodded, enthusiastically, "Yeah, dude—we love to tell all the new guys that story. Scares the shit out of them, but I mean, it's all fake as hell, you know that, right? No one's ever died here."

Sam blinked, jaw tight with annoyance. "Actually he did," he muttered. He hadn't had time to do much research before they arrived, but Sam knew that much was true, at least. Another thing he knew? He'd just wasted twenty minutes on a crap lead. "Bathroom?" he called out.

Donny broke off, apparently halfway thorough telling him about a prank his frat brothers pulled, and pointed left. Sam nodded in thanks, leaving the game of beer pong behind.

Great. Just great. He'd been at this damn party for nearly an hour, and he'd gotten squat on Mike Gunner, much less any hint at what the spirit might be attached to. Apparently, the frat brothers scattered throughout were clueless as to the history of the house, much less anything that had happened longer than four years ago. On the plus side, he'd been trying to keep track of all the wallflowers at the party, and not a one of them had mysteriously disappeared to places unknown. Not to say that someone hadn't been snatched yet—there were too many people there to keep up with—but nothing noticeable had indicated the annual ghostly activity had begun.

It was well into the evening, but perhaps Gunner's spirit didn't appear until after midnight—after all, the report they'd found on his death said his crushed body had been found on the house lawn in the early a.m. hours, and ghosts liked to stick to schedules.

Sam squeezed between a couple of vampires headed for the staircase, where the alleged bathroom was, and promptly fell forward, landing chest first onto the hardwood floor. A few chuckles sounded out, but he ignored them, scrambling back up and glaring accusing back down at whatever his feet had gotten tangled up in.

He had absolutely not stumbled because he was absolutely not drunk after three beers and…Sam's thoughts trailed off when he realized what he'd slipped on. It looked like an orange and green cap, and it took him a moment to realize it was familiar.


He picked it up and stared out at the loud group of partiers. His brother wasn't amongst them. In fact, he hadn't spotted Dean sneaking about since he'd spoken to Donny.

"Oh crap."

"—One second, I'm trying to get away from some weirdo asking me about butt chugging and the next, I'm hanging from chains in the friggin' basement. I was starting to fear for my virtue before the monster showed…"

Sam groaned under the weight of his brother, pressing his shoulder more snuggly into Dean's armpit, an unpleasant experience considering Dean was shirtless, as he navigated them through a hedge. Over the sounds of high pitched screams—someone must have smelled the smoke—and Halloween tunes, he could hear nearby sirens, probably the campus police, and they really needed to get out before the cops arrived. On the plus, Sam couldn't hear anyone from the frat house following them, which meant all the cult members were either dead or fleeing.

"Dean, please…shut up," Sam begged. He could almost make out the shape of the Impala parked a few blocks away—in theory, Sam understood why they'd parked out of the way of witnesses and cops, but at the moment, he was really wishing they'd left the car closer. Dean was all muscle and cheeseburgers, and Sam was planning to start him on a diet if they ever made it back to the car. "Almost there," he muttered, more to himself.

"And what the hell was that thing? Has Dad ever hunted a lizard monster?" Dean asked loudly, still thoroughly confused. Or high. Sam was betting on high. "You know, I don't think he has. We should draw a picture of it for him. I should draw it—your drawings suck, Sammy. I think you got that from Dad because his suck, too. Mine aren't much better, but at least no one mistook my werewolf drawing for a picture of a puppy—dude, that was so funny. The look on Dad's face when your kindergarten teacher showed him that one was hilarious…"

Whatever the iguana-from-Hell had spat on Dean during the fight had turned his brother into a limp Chatty Cathy. Sam grimaced, pulling him along, and he'd really have loved to actually know the answer to Dean's question—frankly, he had no clue what it was they'd just killed, only that it didn't mind turning on its followers, aka greedy frat brothers with a legacy of summoning evil in every generation, if it's sacrifice was taken away. And that it caught fire really well when covered in 100 proof.

"Uh, Dean?" Sam chewed his bottom lip. "Let's not mention this to Dad, okay?"

"But…but we killed the monster," Dean whined. Whined—Sam did a double take. Then Dean drug his feet, forcing Sam to stop, and gave his little brother a sage look, or as best he could manage with blown pupils. "Is it because you got drunk?"

"I'm not drunk!" Sam snapped. Tipsy, maybe, but definitely not drunk—especially after the whole 'realizing your brother's about to be lizard chow' situation. It was surprisingly sobering, but obviously not enough—stupid perceptive-when-high big brothers. "Just—we'll talk about this when you learn how to walk again. Come on."

Sam was never so happy to see the smooth silhouette of the Impala. He pushed his brother against the door on back driver's side, patting him down for the keys.

"You know, Sammy, Dad won't be—" Dean broke off, brow wrinkled in thought. Then his expression softened, and he chuckled to himself. "I just realized…This totally happened in an episode of Buffy."

Sam raised a brow, pausing in his movements to shake his head. "I knew it…"

Dean rolled his eyes, nearly slipping down the side of the car at the effort. "Dude, whatever—so I watch it sometimes? Sarah Michelle is hot, and it's got lesbian sex in the later seasons."

Sam paused again, mouth opening and closing a second before he recovered. "Really?"

Dean smirked as he folded his way into the back seat, somehow managing to take up the entire bench without pulling his legs in. "Uh-huh."

Sam pushed him the rest of the way, slamming the door, then sliding into the front. "You okay, Dean?"

"I think there's a marathon on tonight," Dean replied, voice muffled by the seat.

Sam sighed, giving a glance at the rear-view mirror. He was seventeen, intoxicated, dressed in a skin-tight skeleton costume, and about to drive his brother's most prized possession away from the scene of a crime. And Dean wanted to watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer. "Awesome."

He pulled out onto the road, just barely hearing Dean rolling around the back before suddenly going quiet. "Sammy," Dean called, "why am I naked?"

Sam ignored him, cheeks reddening just a bit. He'd honestly had no clue monster lizards liked pumpkins so much. Next time, he'd just buy the white sheets.