Notes: No big spoilers. Setting is season 2. Written for SPN_bigpretzel's Reverse Micro Bang. I claimed a great prompt art piece by Patricia de Lioncourt which inspired this story (especially my creature feature). Sorry it's a little late for Halloween, but hopefully it's still fun.
Piled high over the brim of the plastic cauldron and left sitting, just sitting, on the steps to the front porch, the colorful assortment of candies was a beacon to children everywhere. Or, at least, it should have been. Brock didn't seem to notice the lack of other takers in the area or how the escorted groups of preschoolers and little kids all seemed to cross the street before they reached the house. All he saw was the prize. Those shiny wrappers, plump with thumb-sized chocolate, were practically screaming across the lawn.
He narrowed his eyes, reading the tiny sign taped across the front of the cauldron and lit by a gray, twilight glow. "Take one," he said, then laughed. Sure, like anybody just took one..
Kyle grabbed him by the arm of his grim reaper costume before his feet could touch the driveway.
His voice was so low it took a moment for Brock to figure out what the other boy had said. Kyle was only seven, two years younger than Brock and practically a baby. Still, the kid caught his own weight in craw-daddies at the creek last summer, and he'd jumped off of Indian Bluff, too, without having an older brother kick him in the butt. So, baby that he was, he'd proved himself worthy more than once, which was the only reason the older boys let him stick around. Brock thought Kyle had to be playing a joke on him when he heard the boy's next words.
"Never take those," Kyle whispered, pulling out his slobbery vampire fans. And all the wetness must have left his mouth and went to his eyes because his gaze was glassy.
Brock snorted. "Nice try, dumbass. I'm getting that candy."
Kyle only shook his head, wrapping his cloak tighter, like the coming November breeze had reached out and grabbed him. "You're new," was his only reply.
Brock raised a brow. New? He'd been living in town almost a full year now. Sure, maybe he didn't know what freaky little rules this hole-in-the-wall had for proper Halloween behavior, but Brock could care less. He'd only gotten out of a ribbing from his brother for dressing up and going out because he was, as his sister told everyone, taking "his little friend" with him. Next year, he'd probably back out of going altogether and spend the night like it was meant to be spent, with toilet paper and egg cartons. Which meant this was his last chance to score big in the candy department.
And that bowl held all the loot he needed. "I'm going in."
Kyle huffed. "You don't understand. Old Man Tompkins only puts that bowl out so he can scare the crap out of kids…He plans something mean every year, and gets 'em right as they reach in. One time he even dumped pig slop on a kindergartener's head. And laughed. I'm not playin', Brock…Let's just go down to Mrs. Whitfield's—she leaves a bowl out too."
"You're such a pansy," Brock snapped. He pulled out of Kyle's grasp. "I'm not afraid of some old fart."
He lifted up his black robes, striding past his friend and across the front lawn, but his feet slowed to a near stop as he reached the porch. Unlike the other decorated houses down the block, the light above wasn't turned on and the shrubbery stood tall, casting the space on either side of the steps in shadows. Brock reached under his draping hood, swiping off the sweat on his black-painted brow as he leaned closer to the candy bowl.
He froze in place, eyes wide as he tried to look to his side without moving his head. "Listen, old dude—I know you're there. You ca-can't scare me."
His voice came out shakier than he would have liked, but the words gave him back his bravado, and he turned fully, lifting his chin, hoping to catch the old man at his own game. Instead of seeing a person hidden in the shadows, he saw a figure sitting on the porch swing. It looked too small to be a man, more like a small child, only its body looked like it was stuffed cloth, and its fat, swollen head was shaped like a pumpkin.
Brock smirked at it. Was that supposed to be scary? Then he froze as he watched the thing's head slowly turn to face him, and it's hollow, Jack-o-Lantern grin seemed to widen in greeting. Brock was too shocked to move, even when it jumped down off the swing, its lumpy body making a crunching sound as it landed.
"What—?" Brock flew back, slipping down the three steps to the bottom and toppling the candy bowl over with him. He landed butt first on the stone walk and scrambled away, tripping over his robes and into the shrubbery.
Sharp leaves dug into him as he clawed his way out. Then he heard it again: scratch. A low whimper left his lips as he let his eyes drop back to the ground, where his knees were perched on a fleshy arm. He followed the appendage up to see the painted face of an elderly man, dressed as a scarecrow, his still eyes open and popped from their sockets in an expression of fear and desperation. But what Brock couldn't look away from was the man's open, stuffed mouth. Bits of candy corn fell from the corpse's blue lips, dropping onto a hay-stuffed hat, each sugary kernel making a soft scratching sound when it hit.
Brock screamed, the noise swallowing the sound of the small, pumpkin-headed creature running back toward the woods, cackling.
Sam enjoyed the luxury of being able to blink awake slowly instead of being shaken into sudden consciousness, so he took his time, shifting the shoulder pressed against the car door's window, swiping the drool out of the corner of his mouth. When his brain became aware of his setting, his brow wrinkled in confusion. Outside his window was a gray overcast hanging over a hilly landscape, promising the approach of night. Which was odd, because, when he'd fallen asleep, it had been early afternoon, and they'd made plans to stop at a motel forty miles away.
Sam glared at his brother's smiling silhouette—which, was that an orange lollipop hanging from Dean's lips?—and realized the music playing softly from the radio was Creedence Clearwater Revival's rendition of "I Put a Spell on You." Until that moment, Sam had almost forgotten that it was Halloween.
"Enjoy your nap, Sleeping Beauty?" Dean asked.
Sam frowned. "Where are we?"
"A couple counties over from where we started—hope you weren't looking forward to a break. I found us a case."
Sam blinked, trying to let that sink in. "How?"
Dean reached out, tapping the radio once with a proud grin on his face. "Local news came on—well, more like local gossip. Wolfman Willis interrupted his prank calls to update his listening audience. There was a murder a few hours ago. Sounds like our kind of Halloween fun, too. Candy shop owner was killed a few blocks down from his place of business. Guess how he died."
"Candy," Dean interrupted, shaking his head and far too amused for Sam's liking. "The candy shop owner died by drowning in candy—I shit you not. Wolfman cracked this joke about angry trick-or-treaters with…" His chuckle was quickly blocked by Sam's sour expression, and he cleared his throat. "Which wasn't funny—so, yeah, a case. We've got one," he amended.
"That's…" Sam wiped the grit out of the corners of his eyes. "I'll admit, that's weird, man, but how are we sure it's our kind of gig."
Dean shrugged. "I switched over to another station—they kept the candy detail out of their report, but mentioned two other 'possibly related' deaths. Sure, I could picture a wacky diabetic spree killer out for revenge on the sugar industry, but, I'm thinking there might be something odd going on."
Sam was already turned around in his seat, digging his laptop out of the back. He loaded it up. "FBI?" he asked, brow raised.
"Too soon, sleepy head." Dean gave him a crooked grin. "How do you feel about going as Clark Kent this year, Sammy?"
Sam sighed. "Reporters it is."
"That was useful," Dean muttered, stepping out onto the sidewalk and into the crisp fall air.
Night had fully arrived, but the quaint lamp posts littering the downtown area kept the twilight glow present. Redmont was a small town, but wealthier than its county neighbors, as was apparent in its restored cobblestone walks and multiple antique shops. It also appeared that the community fully embraced the holidays—every window was covered in spider webs and paper cutouts of dancing skeletons and happy Jack-O-Lanterns, and Dean had counted at least twenty picturesque hay bales artfully decorated with Indian corn, gourds, and pumpkins.
Folks loved their Halloween, and he almost felt a little sorry for them. A street like this should have been filled with children in costume, snatching free sweets from the local businesses, and it probably had been an hour ago, before the local law enforcement had set a curfew for the trick-or-treaters. After all, there was a killer on the loose.
The door to the neighboring store, a stationary shop—Dean still didn't understand how one of those stayed in business—opened up, a polished-looking elderly woman stepping out with a small bag and a child in tow. The kid, a girl in a pleated skirt and pink pea coat (and probably too old to actually be holding her grandmother's hand), turned, her golden braids flopping as she gave the stuffed witch doll and plastic cauldron in the store's window a forlorn glance.
"None of that, Penny. You know you're not to look at those wicked things," the woman snapped, tugging the girl along as if the decorations might come to life and swallow them both whole. The girl pouted but followed without a word, her head dipped low to avoid the rest of the Halloween decor.
Dean raised a brow. Yeah, this town was definitely on edge tonight.
The bell above the door dinged as Sam joined him outside, looking distressed and maybe a little winded. The "Closed" sign was flipped on the glass panel behind him.
"Finally escape Mrs. Cook?" Dean asked.
Sam sighed, waving his small notebook at his brother. "She made me write out a description of the shop's holiday promotions, word for word, between sobs. Which, by the way, what kind of candy shop closes early on Halloween?"
"The kind too cheap to give away product—so, her husband dies, and she's fishing for free advertising." Dean smirked. "But she did give us candy cane bark as a payoff, so I don't think she's entirely evil."
Sam shrugged and fell in line beside his brother, set on getting back into the car and as far from the candy shop, and the bereaved widow inside, as possible. "Okay, so I've got a question—we checked out the block where Mr. Cook was murdered and his shop, which isn't missing any merchandise, so we know he wasn't killed using his own sweets. And from what I can gather, the other two deaths occurred in a similar way, and those two people had nothing to do with the candy business. If that's the case, then what's with using sugar as a weapon?"
Dean slipped into the car, his brother joining him. "Dude, that's why this has to be a witch, vengeful spirit that's latched on to something, or a really low-level demon who all the other demons call Lollipop when his back is turned—nothing else would go to so much effort to do something so…lame."
"Yeah, but there's a problem with that theory," Sam pointed out. "We haven't found a single hex bag, the EMF isn't getting a blip off more than the power lines, and there's not a drop of sulfur to be found."
"No, but there was a trail of Laffy Taffy."
"I'm serious, Dean. We've got nothing to go on so far, and we've already been over the shop, the block where Cook died, and the house where the second victim was killed by Mary Janes."
"—Which was cruel and unusual. Those taste like butt."
Sam frowned. "I like them—did like them. Before today."
"This bastard's ruining candy for us. It needs to die." Dean put the Impala in reverse. "We check out the last scene and hope the cops are spread too thin to notice us. We're bound to find something."
Dean nearly killed the Grim Reaper.
"Shit," he breathed, as soon as the short shriek from the braking tires had faded. Or maybe it had been Sam cursing. He wasn't really sure at the moment.
One second, he'd been voicing his complaints about the unusually competent police still circling the residence of Jim Tompkins, victim number three, as they pulled out of yet another dead-end lead, and the next he was spotting movement out of the corner of his eye. He'd only barely responded in time.
Dean stared at the rearview mirror a moment longer before jumping out his door and rounding the car, pistol pulled and held low.
Sam's clapping footsteps announced he'd followed suit.
Still standing, slightly hunched forward, and maybe five inches from the back of the car, was a short figure in black robes and a hood, plastic scythe held high in defense. The little reaper was shaking from the near miss.
Sam grabbed him by the shoulder, as if anticipating he'd run for it, and got a better look at his face. "He's just a kid, Dean."
Dean leveled his brother with a glare, which very clearly stated what he thought about Captain Obvious' statement, then turned his attention back to the trick-or-treater. "What the hell, kid? Who jumps out behind someone's car when they're backing out? You almost gave me a friggin' heart-attack!"
The kid looked up, his chin wobbling. Most of his black and white painted face was cast in shadow, but his eyes were wet and glimmering. Dean ran a hand over his mouth—just great. First he'd nearly run over a kid and now he was going to make him cry. He shared a glance at Sam, begging him to intercede.
Sighing softly, Sam leaned forward, cutting his height down a bit and looking the kid over with a slight, worried smile. "Hey, buddy, are you okay? I know you're scared, but are you hurt anywhere?"
The reaper straightened, pulling his arm free. "I—I'm not scared." He frowned, obviously disgusted with the notion. "Why are you talking to me like I'm a baby? Are you some sort of pervert?"
Sam's comforting smile disappeared, replaced immediately with a grimace. "He's fine."
Dean snorted at his brother's expense, then shook his head. "Watch where you're going next time, kid—and isn't there a curfew tonight? What are you doing out?"
"Quit calling me 'kid'. My name is Brock, and what were you doing at Mr. Tompkins' house?"
Dean let out a breath. "We weren't at—"
"Uh-huh, I saw you sneaking around it when the cops left." He gave a snide grin. "But you didn't steal anything, 'cause that's not why you were there. I know who you are, and I know why you have a gun." He puffed out his chest, failing to make himself look any taller, then dramatically announced, "You're monster hunters."
Sam stiffened, letting out a broken chuckle. "Monster hunters? What, like Van Helsing? Aren't you a little old to believe to believe in that stuff?"
Brock rolled his eyes. "No," he huffed. "Duh—you're more like Buffy or those gay lame-ohs from the Supernatural books. I know all about monster hunting—my big sister is always writing stupid stories about it and putting them on the internet for her stupid friends to read."
Dean wasn't going to question what that had to do with killing monsters. He gave the kid his best shit-eating grin. "Okay, obviously, you're confusing stupid fantasy with stupid reality here, Brock. There's no such—"
But Dean was cut off by the reaper again.
"Plus, I was in the bushes listening when you guys were talking about the ghosts and witches and salt. Do witches really use baby bones to put curses on people?"
Dean made a face and threw his free hand up in the air in defeat, using the other to tuck his gun—when had kids stopped being scared off by those?—back into his pants. "Fine. We're fearless monster hunters. Now get the hell out of here so we can hunt some frickin' monsters, ya brat."
"Ha! I knew it!" Brock fist-pumped the air above him. "The cops didn't believe me when I told them what had killed Mr. Tompkins, so I snuck out of my house to try and get a picture of it." He pulled a rhinestone-studded, pink cell phone from his robes—no doubt the stolen property of his 'stupid' sister. "But I couldn't find it again. Have you guys seen it yet?"
Sam's eyes widened, almost comically. "Wait—you saw it?"
"Are you deaf and dumb?"
Dean snatched up a wad of the cheap black fabric, shaking the kid slightly to get his attention, and narrowing his eyes on him. "What did you see?" he growled. "Tell me everything. Now, Brock."
Brock swallowed hard. "Uh, it was little, like shorter than me," he said, quietly. "And it looked like it was a doll at first, made of ugly brown material, with a pumpkin as a head. Then it got up and ran off—that's when I found Mr. Tompkins all..."
His voice dropped, caught in his throat, and Dean loosened his grip, turning it into a pat on the shoulder. "Did you see where it went?" he asked, more gently.
Brock nodded, pointing out to the left side of the house. "It was heading toward the trees."
Dean watched the kid's brow wrinkle in thought. "Is there something else, Brock?"
"I think…" His voice dropped off again, and he frowned. "When I looked back, to see if I could still see it, it was too dark, but I thought I saw someone I knew standing in the woods…There's this girl, Penny Wright, who's in my class—she always wears ugly old people clothes, like skirts and sweaters, because she lives with her snooty grandma. Her family is really weird—they're all rich and stuff, and they don't even celebrate Halloween. I think it was her, but when I blinked, she was gone."
"Any clue what we're dealing with?"
Sam shook his head, stepping over a fallen tree and jarring the duffel bag hanging over his shoulder. It had taken more than a few threats, but they'd finally managed to get rid of the kid and head into the woods beside Tompkins' house. It was as good a location to start with as any, since Dean had pointed out that the forest looked as if it continued on to the end of 2nd Avenue, the block where the candy shop owner was killed. If he was right about that much, than it was also possible the woods stretched north to Keaton Street, where the second victim lived. So far, it was the only connection they had between them.
"Your guess is as good as mine. But we know one thing—if Penny Wright is actually involved, it's not a ghost, since she's still alive. As far as child-sized creatures with Jack-O-Lantern heads who kill their victims with candy? No, I'm pretty sure we would have noticed that in Dad's journal."
"Still smells witchy to me," Dean muttered.
Sam shrugged, only partly agreeing. Something about what Brock said had planted a seed of doubt about that theory, but his own was too hazy to even bring up without more info. He came to a sudden stop, suddenly realizing a low fog was surrounding them, and looked up.
"Uh, Dean? Didn't Brock say there wasn't anything back here?"
Dean held his position at his brother's shoulder, but slowly shifted his sawed-off, pushing aside a branch blocking their view. "Looks like he was wrong."
Where the trees were sparse, moonlight glimmered down, casting the clearing in an eerie glow. Stretched out before them was a cemetery, the likes of which they had, in their hunting lives unfortunately seen before. Scattered between trees and high grass, covered by the blanket of fog rolling in, were sunken, uneven plots, marked with tilting crosses and crumbling tombstones. A metal fence had once marked off the area, probably as a family cemetery, but part of it had long since collapsed.
Dean stepped past Sam, surveying the area. Not a hundred yards from the cemetery stood an old Victorian house, part of its roof collapsed inward and vines covering its sides. The windows were blacked out, and a heavy, thick covering of cobwebs shadowed the open back door.
Sam frowned. "Does something about this seem off to you?"
Instead of replying, Dean walked forward, and delivered a kick to the first angel statue he encountered. A pop sounded as it broke in half, revealing a hollow inside, surrounded by gray-painted plaster. He pushed over a tombstone as if it were as light as a feather and then turned back, amusement on his face.
"You mean the part where it's all fake?"
Sam raised a brow. "So, what—you think this place was a Halloween haunted house once?"
"Probably." Dean shrugged. "Looks like it's been shut down for some time. All these props are weather damaged, left out to rot. The kid probably didn't know this place used to be a business."
"Wait—so, to clarify, we have a little monster with a pumpkin head who apparently ran off toward a closed down haunted house attraction?"
"Sounds like something a kid would make up after reading one too many Goosebumps books." Dean turned to face him. "You're thinking Brock lied to us about what he saw?"
"No." Sam shook his head. "Actually, I don't. But I think you're right—it does sound like something a kid would make up."
Dean blinked. "Okay, Sammy, if you're just going to repeat everything I say—"
Sam rolled his eyes, ready to interrupt, when he spotted movement behind his brother, and swung his sawed-off instead. "Down!"
Dean dropped and rolled, just in time for Sam to fire at the bobbing pumpkin head as it appeared from behind a tombstone. Salt pinged against the creature, but didn't slow it down as it waddled by, giggling, before it darted into a patch of fog.
Dean stayed low, on one knee, his own weapon at the ready as he stared at the cemetery. "So much for salt working," he breathed. "Definitely has a physical body, though."
"Yeah, looks like it's made of a potato sack—I think the salt round blew a hole in it." Sam cautiously stepped forward, then leaned down, picking something up off the ground. It was a piece of cheap hard candy wrapped in a black and orange striped wrapper. Confused, he tossed it back toward Dean. "That came out of it."
"It bleeds candy?"
Sam licked his lips. "I think it's made of candy. Dean, I think I know what we're after…"
"Care to enlighten—shit!"
Sam spun, just in time to see Dean slide away behind a raised tomb, and threw himself down onto his knees, grabbing Dean's grasping fingertips. Without missing a beat, he fired blindly above Dean. The tension released, and the sound of mirthful cackles and crunching little footsteps echoed from the darkness as the monster ran away.
Dean pulled himself up onto his knees, hacking. Sam hunched down beside him, slapping him across the back. Dean choked a moment longer before a string of black licorice slid out of his mouth and plopped down into onto the grass. Sam made a face as a two more pieces of candy covered in saliva joined it, and Dean's breathing evened out.
"Son of a bitch," Dean gasped, coughing once more. His voice was hoarse and his eyes glistening from the strain. "It spat candy down my throat—I think I'm traumatized. Bastard didn't even buy me dinner first."
"That's disgusting," Sam noted. "So is the candy thing. Can you walk?"
Dean's answer was to shrug him off, grab their stuff, and push himself back up. Sam looked up, realizing the giggling and footsteps had faded away, then he caught movement at the house-place. He was ready to take aim when he realized the silhouette was wrong, and a small girl stepped out of the shadows beside the house's wide porch, beckoning him forward.
Sam let out a shallow huff. "I think we've found Penny Wright."
The inside of the abandoned house was cold, as if it had sucked up all the Fall chill outside and dropped it by a few degrees. Still, it wasn't quite frosty enough to indicate an actual spirit, and Dean had a feeling that, despite the plastic bones hanging from rubber chains against the walls and the rusty streaks across the floor, this place had probably never been haunted by anything more than the ghost of bad financial decisions. He kept an eye on the door while Sam knelt down next to the girl perched on a dusty foot stool.
She was wearing a pout. Not just any pout, either. It was a bottom lip out, head disappearing between pink fleece shoulders, puppy-dog eyes gleaming pout that would have matched Sammy's back in the day—quite an accomplishment for a nine-year-old.
Sammy was matching her move with his soft, commanding, 'I put the pal in principal' voice. "You really like Halloween, don't you, Penny?"
She shrugged, tugging at one of her blond braids with gloved fingers. "Grandma says it's the devil's holiday."
Dean snorted, but let it go when Sam frowned.
"She never lets you dress up and get candy with the other kids, does she? But you've always wanted to, haven't you?" Sam asked. When she bit her lip, he went on. "Penny, what do you know about the monster outside?"
"The Candy Man?" she asked, her voice almost too low to hear.
"The Candy Man," Sam repeated. "Can you tell me about him?"
"He's the king of Halloween." She raised her head slightly, her voice louder and slightly excited—she sounded even younger when she spoke. "He's made of bags of candy, and lives in a coffin full of it, so he can stuff himself with fresh sweets all the time. And, on Halloween, he finds old people who like to trick kids instead of treat them, and he gives them so much candy they get a bellyache…" She swallowed and pout returned at full force. "But…but he's not supposed to hurt people real bad. Just scare them and give them too much to eat."
Dean cocked a brow. "Well, kudos to him for a job well done. Sam, you plan on filling me in here."
Sam stood up, guiding Dean a few feet away from the kid. "I think I know what's going on here…You remember our case at Hell House?"
Dean cursed under his breath. "Mordechai? You're saying it's a tulpa? But that doesn't make any sense. There's no symbol to channel in on, and in case you haven't noticed, this isn't exactly a popular legend. There aren't thousands of internet junkies, or monks, believing in the Candy Man."
Sam shook his head. "I know, I know—but after that job, when I was looking up a bit more info on the tulpa, I noticed that it was linked to studies in parapsychology." He paused, giving the kid another glance before lowering his voice. "You know how sometimes poltergeist manifestations are linked to kids and teens, because at those ages people are prone to emotional outbursts, even on a psychic level?"
"Telekinesis? Are you saying Penny has a bit of the Shining, too?"
Sam sighed. "Not necessarily…but maybe. I mean, even if she's only got a touch of the psychic vibe, it might be enough. You know how kids are—she's probably been obsessing over this Halloween fantasy for years, and now it's manifested."
"Okay, say you're right. How do we kill it? Convince her salt can do it in?"
Sam grimaced. "I think we're going to have to think more like a kid."
"Awesome." Dean glared down at her, but his expression softened when he noticed her shivering. "Okay, Penny—tell me you know how to kill the Candy Man."
She nodded sagely. "Uh-huh. The only way to kill the Candy Man is to eat him."
"I'm gonna vomit."
Sam almost followed through, gagging on a mouthful of candy corn before leaning back against the flimsy prop coffin, his stomach swollen and pouched out. Beside him, Dean muttered something under his breath, ripping his knife at the burlap body again as he chomped on another string of licorice like a madman. Or a very hungry cannibal.
Sam almost threw up just watching him chew.
"That's…" Dean growled, tearing open a piece of taffy and shoving it into his cheek like a chipmunk "…what…get…bitch…"
Sam grabbed him by the sleeve, pulling him back, and after a few more garbled curses, Dean joined him beside the casket, holding his belly and breathing as if he'd just ran a marathon. Across the room from them, Penny lay on her side, snoring softly after her sugar crash, her round cheeks smeared with chocolate.
"She's out, man." Sam paused, wincing as he held down a belch. "I think we can stop. Before it kills us post-mortem."
And, he didn't have to point out that the Candy Man was no longer twitching. In fact, Sam couldn't really tell where all of its limbs were…He assumed the shredded bits of fabric and the pile of wrappers marked the spot where its torso had been, but Dean had done a number on it. The Jack-O-Lantern head was smashed outside, having been tossed out the window of the bedroom where they'd found the monster.
"No, Sammy. Can't…leave…job…unfinished." Dean threw a thumb over his shoulder at the coffin, before letting his arm drop back down like a hundred pound weight. "That sucker's full… and we need to finish it off to make sure it—"
Sam cut him off. "She's sleeping. She thinks it's dead, so it's dead, man. We can officially burn the rest, drop Penny off at her house, and call it a job well done."
Dean paused, eyes glazed slightly, before he groaned in consent. "That sounds easier."
Sam tightened his grip on his brother's arm, pulling him up as he rose, with great effort, and dusting the wrappers off of both of them. "If I never see another Halloween candy, it'll be too soon."
The sound of crumpling drew his attention, and he watched as Dean reached one hand into the coffin, shoving a few dozen candies into his coat pocket, before leaning back onto his brother for support again.
Dean shrugged. "For the road. Might get hungry." He smiled lazily. "Happy Halloween, Sammy."
Sam thought, in retrospect, that it wasn't entirely his fault that he vomited down the front of his brother's shirt. Happy Halloween, indeed.