Fic: The Winchesters' Ten Steps for Surviving Halloween | SPN | Sam, Dean, etc | R | 1/1
Title: The Winchesters' Ten Steps for Surviving Halloween
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel, the Trickster, Bobby
Rating: R - for language
Word Count: 4,591
Prompt: for spn_halloween - #14: The Winchesters' Ten Steps for Surviving Halloween
Summary: No matter how hard the boys try to stick to the plan for the holiday, the rules still get broken as Murphy's Law takes over.
Disclaimer: WB and Kripke own it all. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Notes: Yeah, this is about a week late. :/ Oops. Also, semi-crackfic ahead, with general spoilers for Season 4, up through "It's the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester."
The Winchesters' Ten Steps for Surviving Halloween
1. Be prepared. Anything that can happen, will.
On the afternoon of October thirtieth, Dean repacks their emergency duffel to its Halloween survival configuration, while Sam checks the items off their list, sitting on the other bed in the dismal hotel room.
“Thermos of holy water?”
“Check.”
“Charms and relics?”
Dean rifles through the smaller bag. “Crosses, pentacle, Triskele, blessed runes, all check.”
“Gris-Gris bag?”
“Check.”
“Candles, matches, lighters?”
“Check,” Dean answers, tossing in the bundles items.
“Salt?”
“Check.”
“Blowtorch?”
Dean leers. “Check.”
“Fire extinguisher?” Sam chuckles, smirking.
“Yeah, yeah, check,” Dean grumbles back; he'll never live down the flaming bag of poo incident, he knows.
“Herb kit?”
“All fresh dried, check.”
“Oils?”
“Garlic, rosemary, clove, peppermint, all check.” Dean tosses the bundle of modified spritzer bottles into the duffel.
“Knives?”
“All the usual, check. Athame and Boline, check. Demon-slaying knife, check.”
“Incenses?”
“Protective, Purifying, Holy, all check.”
“Guns?”
“Yours and mine, check. Both sawed-offs, check.”
“Ammo?”
“Plenty of standard issue, check. Rock salt, check. Silver bullets, check.”
“Latin text?”
“Check.”
“Chalk, tape, and spray paint?”
“Check, check, and check,” Dean stuffs it all into the now nearly-bulging bag.
“First aid kit?”
“Hell yeah, check.”
Sam sighs as he gets to the bottom of the list, and scowls halfheartedly at his brother. “Silly string, really?”
“Oh yeah, baby,” Dean grins, an evil gleam in his eyes as he shakes the can and tosses it in. “Check.”
“And candy!? Seriously, Dean...”
“Emergency fuel! I can officially say we're prepared for anything.”
Rolling his eyes, Sam drops the list on the bed beside him. “I really wish you hadn't said that.”
* * * * *
2. Vigilance is key. Supernatural creatures live for the day and night when the veil between the worlds is at its weakest.
The morning of the thirty-first starts with an EMF sweep of the hotel room as soon as they get up. Finding nothing besides an outlet that seriously needs rewiring, the brothers take their turns in the bathroom, one watching the EMF detector and the door and window at all times, and then they head out for breakfast.
It's a tense trip to the diner, both of them glancing in the mirrors almost non-stop, neither daring to speak yet and lose their focus to easy banter. Dean doesn't even drum his fingers on the steering wheel, the Impala silent inside save for their measured breaths.
The same routine follows when they get there. Visually sweeping the diner, they take stock of their surroundings, noting every detail of both the place and the patrons. Three exits, windows on three sides for good surveillance, ten booths, six spots at the counter, two waitresses, one in a fifties-style getup and one dressed like a Raggedy Ann doll, and seven patrons, none in costume, none showing any initial signs of possession or other supernatural influence.
So far, so good.
But the EMF detector has other ideas, shrieking in sudden alarm when a plate of eggs and bacon is set in front of Sam.
“Oh, you've gotta be kidding me,” Dean groans, shoving his own plate away and slumping back against the creaking vinyl of the booth.
Sam scowls at the food sourly and passes the detector over both plates. The whining cry is its final word on the subject.
Taking their coffee to go, the brothers forgo breakfast and get on the road, headed toward Bobby's.
* * * * *
3. Steer clear of supernatural 'acquaintances'. Demons, angels, demigods, and high-powered psychics are to be avoided at all costs.
Dean nearly jumps out of his skin when he glances in the rear view mirror, only to find Castiel sitting primly in the back seat. “Jes-!!” he cuts himself off before hurling a long string of blasphemy at the angel.
Sam turns in the passenger seat, his mouth open in shock and indignation. “Wha-?”
“Your presence is required in a town seventy-three miles west of here, Dean,” Castiel starts, cutting through the pleasantries. “A spirit with mal intent has taken on the guise of-”
“No!” the elder brother interjects, punching an index finer into the air. “No way. The last time you messed with us on Halloween, we had to fight a demon that I swear you made up just to torment us. Find some other hunter to do your dirty work today.”
Castiel works his jaw for a moment, then says, “People will die tonight, if you do not intervene.”
“People always die,” Sam speaks up, “whether we help or not. You're an angel. If it's just a spirit, you should be able to handle it yourself.”
The angel looks out the side window, then down at his lap, as if Sam's point has hit an unintended mark.
Dean narrows his eyes at him. “What?” he demands.
“It's not just a spirit. It is a powerful entity.”
“What is it?” Sam prods him, voice hard.
“The Hare.”
Two sets of eyebrows raise, with a simultaneous, “Huh?”
Castiel seems to fidget under their scrutiny. “You know him by another name. He is a Trickster God.”
Dean's sudden foot on the break and hard jerk of the steering wheel throws gravel up behind the car on the side of the road and sends the three of them lurching forward in their seats. “Oh, hell no,” he grinds out.
“Are you out of your mind!?” Sam glares, face turning purple with building rage. “You have to know what happened the last time we ran into him.”
“I'm very aware of that incident, Sam. But things have changed. He won't challenge either of you, now, not since-”
“We said no, Cas,” Dean seethes. “Now get the hell out of my car.” His fingers tighten around the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. “Now!”
The angel shakes his head, as if disappointed. “I can only hope you'll change your mind,” he says quietly, and then he's gone, the back seat empty again.
Dropping his head back against the seat, Sam says, “Today is just not destined to be our day, is it?”
Dean frowns, flipping on the turn signal to pull the car back onto the road heading in the opposite direction, taking them west. “I'm really startin' to hate that freakin' angel,” he grumbles. “And the damn Trickster, too. Bastard.”
The younger brother scowls. “Join the club.”
* * * * *
4. Pranks are verboten. Period.
Seventy-three miles west puts them in the small mountain town of Three Forks, Montana, not quite halfway back to where they woke up this morning. Things seem quiet enough, though with the Trickster, there's simply no way to tell. Broward County had certainly seemed unassuming, after all.
“I don't like this,” Dean comments as they head down the sidewalk of the main street through town, snacking on a honey bun from the last convenience store they passed.
Sam just scowls again, keeping his focus on the search for anything seeming out of the ordinary.
“I mean, how the hell are we supposed to find the Trickster, when he could be anyone or anything?”
“I don't know,” Sam says. “But I bet we can-”
“Aw, dude!” Dean cuts him off, his mouth full of half-chewed honey bun and his face screwed up in disgust. “What the hell? How did you get salt on this thing? Yuck!”
Sam stops short, turning to his brother with dread spreading over his features. “What?”
Dean swallows dramatically as he tosses the remainder of his late breakfast in a nearby trash can, then grumbles, “I thought we agreed on no pranking today! Dude, that was disgusting!”
“That... wasn't me, Dean. I know the rules, believe me.”
Sam's eyebrows are knitted together so tight that Dean can't even argue, and a sense of mild panic sweeps through him. “Then...”
“Hello, boys,” says a voice behind them, and they turn to find an older woman in a smart business suit standing with her arms crossed over her chest and an eerily familiar wicked gleam in her eyes. “About time you showed up. I was beginning to think you hadn't received my invitation to the party; Castiel was a little hard to convince to send it.”
Dean doesn't miss a beat. “Nice costume. So your real name's the Hare? What, like Bugs Bunny?” he smirks darkly.
The Trickster grins. “Something like that. Catch me if you can.” And with that, he - she? - is gone.
Both brothers swear under their breath.
* * * * *
5. Never accept candy from strangers. And certainly don't eat it.
They spend the next two hours sitting in a local coffeehouse abusing the free wi-fi to see what they can dig up on the Trickster's 'disguise', finally managing to grab some food, until Sam lifts his head from the laptop, a sour expression on his face. “Oh, this is just getting better and better.”
“What'd you find?” Dean asks, popping a piece of chocolate into his mouth.
“This.” He turns the computer around, and Dean sees the Trickster's new face smiling beneath the headline, “New Three Forks Mayor To Host Annual Town Halloween Bash.”
“Shit.”
Sam nods, “Exactly.”
“So we're going to a party. That's just great.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “All right, give me the details.”
* * * * *
Walking into the town's meeting hall at four p.m., Sam and Dean once again take stock of their surroundings, this time with the understanding that the details might change on them. It's gonna be a long evening, keeping their eyes peeled for the slightest changes, but they're ready.
It's just too bad they couldn't bring their emergency duffel into the party with them. Not that they haven't squirreled away about half of their supplies on their persons - their cobbled together hobo costumes have a fair amount of pockets - but still. Too many things got left in the car, and it's making them both nervous.
The hall is decorated with more black and orange and glitter than either of them can stand, and it's quite a surprise that the party is in full swing. How had they not noticed the steady stream of people making their way over? But whatever. Everyone's in costume, some glitzy, some gory, some cute, some not so much, and there's candy everywhere. The center of the hall is filled with what looks like a six-tiered fountain of individually-wrapped candy, pieces spilling over the sides and onto the wide table supporting it. Hands randomly reach in and take out handfuls, though the bowls never seem to get any emptier. And-
Sam catches Dean heading straight for the table, hand outstretched and eyes wide and glassy. He grabs his brother's wrist and puts himself between Dean and the candy, pushing him back. “Nuh-uh. No way. Dean, you know the rules, too. Come on!”
Dean pulls back from him, shaking his head. “The hell?”
“Oh, shit. Don't tell me you were compelled to go for the candy.”
“Um...” Dean's eyes are wide and he looks a little more shaken than Sam's comfortable with. “I think I was.”
Running a hand through his hair, Sam turns to examine the scene a little more closely, careful not to fixate on the fountain of sweets. “Okay, so what's the deal? Poison? Razor blades? Anyone look like they're turning into their costumes or regressing to teenagers?”
Dean smirks at him, then sweeps the scene himself. No one looks like they're about to sprout tentacles or fall over and die. They just seem... happy to be eating the candy. His face scrunches up with confusion. “Nothing's happening. I don't get it.”
“Hmm... All right. Let's just keep a look out for a while. Maybe we can still find the Trickster and deal with him without too causing much damage.”
“Yeah.”
* * * * *
6. Don't get involved with 'ghost hunts'. Some idiot will invariably try to suss out the nastiest spirit around.
An hour into the party, they still haven't spotted the Trickster. Somehow, they think they've been duped, but of course that's probably exactly what happened. People are still going nuts for the never-ending fountain of candy, but there haven't been any effects to speak of, just lots of smiling faces and a seemingly happy crowd. It's almost... eerie.
Feeling like they should just pack it in and get back on the road to try to make Bobby's before the supernatural really starts getting their groove on, Sam and Dean start to head toward the doors, both generally feeling disgruntled about the whole thing. Damned Trickster.
“Going somewhere?”
Speak of the devil.
Turning again, they find him - her - whatever in a set of too-large overalls and a straw hat, face done up with fake freckles and smudges of dirt, and a red handkerchief tied around her neck, smirking like the cat that ate the canary.
“Well, if it isn't Farmer McTricksy,” Dean smirks back. “And here we thought we'd been given the slip.”
“Not hardly. I'm just having a little fun with you. Got other reasons to call you boys here.”
Sam shifts, surreptitiously going for the stake they'd hastily prepared before the party. It's a long shot, but who knows...
Ignoring the subtle move, the Trickster grins and inclines her head toward a group of teenagers flocking toward the door. “Better keep an eye on them. I think their plans for the night are just getting started. And there are things that go bump in the night where they're headed, if you catch my drift.”
Focus shifting almost involuntarily, Dean catches a snippet of their conversation as they're discussing an old farmhouse and a local legend they want to debunk, a la Ghost Hunters. “Fuck,” he curses. “They're gonna get themselves killed.”
Sam's hand is still on the stake hidden in an inside pocket of his tattered trench coat, but his eyes flicker between the teenagers and the Trickster. “This better not be some sick joke.”
The Trickster puts up her hands in mock surrender. “Oh, it's completely legit, I swear. Although, you're gonna have your hands full, so you'd better get going.”
* * * * *
“I can't believe we're doing this, tonight of all nights,” Dean grumbles as they traipse through the woods up to the old house that the gaggle of teens has targeted for their 'debunking'. With the sawed-off tucked under one arm, his pearl-handled pistol tucked into the waistband of his jeans, and the duffel slung over his other shoulder, this time he really is ready for anything.
Sam huffs pointedly. “As if we really had a choice. I swear, the more we try to steer clear of all this, the more we can't escape it. It's like we're cursed.”
“Yeah, or we have an angel and a Trickster that just have it in for us. Assholes.”
“Shh...” Sam stops him, drawing up short and motioning with a hand for Dean to get down and stay quiet.
Looking out into the clearing ahead, Dean sees the group already headed inside, their gear in tow. Not as much as the last group they had to deal with - no Ghost Hunters in the least - but still enough that they're bound to wind up in trouble. And of course, it's too late now to warn them off. Damn kids must have had their stuff ready even before the party.
With a nod to one another, the brothers step quietly out from the tree line, guns at the ready, and a sudden scream pierces the air, followed by a cacophony that simply defies description. Adrenaline racing, they rush into the house to defend the poor, dumb kids that got themselves into this mess.
* * * * *
7. Always have backup. The undead and the unholy will try their damnedest to get you alone.
Sam doesn't know where Dean is anymore. It's been what feels like an hour since they got inside, faced with the ugliest demon-monster-ghost-thing they'd seen in a long while, and were forced to split up to get at all the kids that had come willingly into this place. Too many floors - three at least - and too many corridors and rooms. Too many places for the nasty things of the night to hide and keep the advantage.
Realizing he's completely alone again after sending two more of the teenagers outside, Sam's spine prickles with the sense of the danger he's in. He's not even sure what that thing is, much less how to kill it, even less how to stay ahead of it. Shape-shifters, vampires, werewolves, angry spirits, all things he knows how to deal with, but this... this is a whole different ballgame, and he can't help but blame the Trickster for getting them into this situation. Well, and blame Castiel for being the Trickster's messenger boy. Either way, this thing isn't the usual sort of monster they face, what with all the hallucinations it's given them so far, and there's no way to know what'll happen if they try to fill it full of rock salt or silver bullets. The illusions were dispatched easily enough, but the monster... that's bound to be a different story. Hell, he's got his demon-slaying knife in one hand, just in case, even as the other holds a shotgun.
With his weapons at the ready, Sam keeps his breaths measured as he moves from room to room, waiting and searching. He's not sure what he'll do if he finds that thing, but it's better to stay quiet and not alert it to his presence if he can. The floorboards of the old house don't seem to want to cooperate with that goal, though, and he winces with every creak and groan of the wood, sweat trickling down his temples, his heart thundering in his ears.
If only he had Dean at his back, he'd feel better about this. Not that they'd never been separated on a hunt before, far from it, but since Dean came back from Hell and the game changed its rules right underneath them, they've made it a point to keep within grabbing distance whenever possible. Having been forced to give up on that plan for the duration of this hunt, Sam can't help his involuntary shiver in the cold October air. He doesn't like this situation one bit, especially considering what he thought he saw in one of the rooms on the top floor. If that thing manages to actually corner him, he just... doesn't know.
Turning to get his bearings again, he heads out into another hallway to find the stairs, but he's stopped by a brushing touch on his elbow, and adrenaline floods him in a heartbeat.
* * * * *
8. “Shoot first and ask questions later” does not apply.
As he whirls around, Sam's shotgun is in the air and bearing on its target with the ease of long practice.
“Sammy, no! It's me!” Dean says, his own guns pointed in the air in surrender.
Sam takes a step back, moving toward the stairs, the shotgun still aimed at his brother - or an impostor, he isn't sure yet. The ones upstairs did a damned good impression of Dean, after all. “What did Dad give you on Christmas when you were twelve?” he asks the first of their usual confirmation questions. The other hallucinations-illusions-whatevers didn't get much farther than this one.
“Not a damn thing,” Dean says, shaking his head slightly. “He wasn't even there. But you gave me my pendant.” He points with the pistol in one hand at the gleam of the gold pendant over his chest.
“What did I do to the Impala while you were gone?”
“You douched it the fuck up with a damned iPod.”
Sam narrows his eyes. “Christo.”
“Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria,” Dean smirks.
The corner of his mouth quirking up as relief washes away the terror he'd been gripped with, Sam lowers his gun. “Jesus, Dean, you scared the living shit outta me.”
Dean lowers his own weapons to his sides and steps forward. “Sorry, Sam. I've been looking all over for you. Squared off with three of you downstairs, complete with yellow eyes and temper tantrums when they didn't get their way. None of them even knew the questions, much less the answers.”
“Guess that explains all the gunshots.”
“Yeah. I take it you had your hands full up here, too?”
Sam nods, finally pulling his brother in for a last-minute confirmation hug, hoping Dean doesn't notice the shaking in his arms. What he'd seen... it wasn't pretty. Made yellow-eyed Sam look tame by comparison.
“Anyway,” Dean coughs, pulling away. “All those kids are outside, and that just leaves that thing Tricksy conjured up.” When they reach the head of the stairs, Dean nudges him with his shoulder, and they start to head down, side by side.
“Any idea how to kill it?”
“Not a clue, but my thought is, why not burn the sucker out?”
Sam gives an incredulous look, his anger at the monster warring with disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding?”
“Nope. Been plenty of rain this year, shouldn't be any danger of forest fire.”
At the bottom of the stairs, Sam sheaths the demon-slaying knife and shakes his head at his brother. “All right, lets light it up. Get out the blowtorch.”
* * * * *
9. When in doubt, go to ground. Sometimes the best defense is to just hide and wait it out.
Sam and Dean are on the road again before the fire crew even arrives on the scene, peeling out even as the screams of the dying monster-whatever-the-fuck chase them out with the heat of the flames. With those kids all out and halfway back to safety by now, there's just no point in wasting time anymore. They're both exhausted to the core, dirty, hungry, and know that no hotel will do tonight. If they hurry, they can get to Bobby's before midnight, maybe have time to get cleaned up before they hit the hay, assuming the panic room has a bathroom.
Eyes glazed from the long day and the long drive, they take the highway toward Bobby's in one straight shot, giving their surrogate father a quick phone call to let him know they'd get there soon, possibly coming in hot, considering the Trickster. No rest stops, no gas stops, thanks to filling up in Three Forks. They don't even slow down for the known speed traps, praying silently that the Impala will work a little magic of her own tonight. If they can just cut the three hour trip down to two and a half, everything will be fine...
* * * * *
Pulling at last into Bobby's yard, they both let out heavy breaths of relief. They made it, and it's not even eleven o'clock yet. Sam looks at Dean disbelievingly as they get out of the car, gear in tow, and head for the door. “I don't think I've seen you drive that fast in ages, Dean,” he remarks.
“Well, you know...” his brother says almost sheepishly, before looking away and coughing pointedly into his fist. Neither of them wants to admit just how freaked out they are after what happened in that house. Damned Trickster.
Sam's hand is raised to knock on the door, when Bobby jerks it wide open to let them in, the older man in the hunter equivalent of riot gear, his eyes wide and squirrelly. “Well, don't just stand there, get inside, ya' id'jits!”
The two younger men waste no time in accepting his invitation, and all three are headed down to Bobby's panic room in the span of another heartbeat. “Guess I shouldn't be surprised you're so prepared,” Sam remarks as they get inside the iron room and Bobby clicks the bolt on the door into place.
The older man gives him a scolding sideways glance at that. “It's Halloween, Sam. I'm usually up to my eyeballs in ghosts this time o' year, thanks to the wrecks in the salvage yard. Why do you think I built this thing, anyway? And knowing you got the Trickster on your tail just makes the situation all that more urgent. Bastard's bound to stir up every damn thing in the state. Takin' no chances tonight.”
Sam nods in reply, and Dean's, “No argument here,” is almost lost as the wailing of spirits begins on the other side of the door.
* * * * *
10. Halloween isn't over until sunup.
The sounds of the spirits attacking the wards outside the panic room don't ease up for hours. Screaming, wailing, banging, growling, cursing - it all starts to blend together, becoming a white noise that neither Sam, Dean, nor Bobby even responds to after a while. Dean is even lulled to sleep, much to Sam's confusion, but the younger brother chalks it up to Dean's time spent down below, that it's so indistinguishable from nightmare at this point that it doesn't even faze him.
But then even Sam starts to drift off himself, and suddenly he can't blame Dean anymore for giving up and getting some shut eye. He'll let Bobby watch the door and the wards for the last hour or so...
* * * * *
At some point in the early pre-dawn hours, Dean wakes to the sound of Sam's light snores coming from the cot next to his, interspersed with his brother's whimpers at whatever nightmare is pulling at him in his sleep, and he realizes the wailing of the spirits surrounding the panic room have quieted at last. Scrubbing a hand blearily over his face, he lets his eyes adjust to the low light, finding Bobby still sitting up by the door, muttering a Latin incantation low under his breath.
“Bobby?” he mutters.
The older man pauses in his recitation. “Yeah, boy?”
“Time is it?”
“Little after five. Got another hour and a half before sunup. Get some more sleep.”
Dean scrunches up his face. “Can't,” he says, swinging his legs down onto the floor. “Still too wound up from yesterday, I guess.”
Bobby smirks. “No shit. Tangling with the Trickster and whatever that thing was he conjured up against you can't have been an easy ride.”
“It...” The elder Winchester takes a deep breath. “It was all fake, wasn't it?”
“Welcome to Halloween, Dean. You boys have had it easy until now.”
“And yet, all the crazy shit always seems to find us on that day, anyway.”
“The curse of bein' a hunter.”
Dean nods, then asks, “It's always gonna be like this, isn't it?” Only, it's more of a statement than a question, and he knows the answer already.
Bobby smirks again, ruefully. “Yup.”
* * * * *
With the sun shining in through the windows of Bobby's kitchen on the morning of November first, Sam and Dean waste no time digging into the older hunter's patented post-hunt breakfast, their plates loaded with sausage, scrambled eggs, and hot, buttered biscuits, steaming mugs of hot coffee already halfway to needing refills.
“Gotta repack the duffel later,” Sam says between bites.
“And add 'Trickster stake' to the list for next year,” Dean adds, getting a nod in response.
Walking back into the kitchen from the living room where he was building a fresh fire in the hearth, Bobby grumbles, “Next year, you'll both be here well before Halloween, and you're not leavin' 'til well after.”
Dean and Sam glance at each other and chuckle, and the younger brother shrugs, “Sounds good to me.”
“Sounds like a plan to me, too,” Dean agrees. If things somehow manage to work out in their favor next year, they won't even need their ten steps for survival. He hopes.
* * * * *
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel, the Trickster, Bobby
Rating: R - for language
Word Count: 4,591
Prompt: for spn_halloween - #14: The Winchesters' Ten Steps for Surviving Halloween
Summary: No matter how hard the boys try to stick to the plan for the holiday, the rules still get broken as Murphy's Law takes over.
Disclaimer: WB and Kripke own it all. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Notes: Yeah, this is about a week late. :/ Oops. Also, semi-crackfic ahead, with general spoilers for Season 4, up through "It's the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester."
The Winchesters' Ten Steps for Surviving Halloween
1. Be prepared. Anything that can happen, will.
On the afternoon of October thirtieth, Dean repacks their emergency duffel to its Halloween survival configuration, while Sam checks the items off their list, sitting on the other bed in the dismal hotel room.
“Thermos of holy water?”
“Check.”
“Charms and relics?”
Dean rifles through the smaller bag. “Crosses, pentacle, Triskele, blessed runes, all check.”
“Gris-Gris bag?”
“Check.”
“Candles, matches, lighters?”
“Check,” Dean answers, tossing in the bundles items.
“Salt?”
“Check.”
“Blowtorch?”
Dean leers. “Check.”
“Fire extinguisher?” Sam chuckles, smirking.
“Yeah, yeah, check,” Dean grumbles back; he'll never live down the flaming bag of poo incident, he knows.
“Herb kit?”
“All fresh dried, check.”
“Oils?”
“Garlic, rosemary, clove, peppermint, all check.” Dean tosses the bundle of modified spritzer bottles into the duffel.
“Knives?”
“All the usual, check. Athame and Boline, check. Demon-slaying knife, check.”
“Incenses?”
“Protective, Purifying, Holy, all check.”
“Guns?”
“Yours and mine, check. Both sawed-offs, check.”
“Ammo?”
“Plenty of standard issue, check. Rock salt, check. Silver bullets, check.”
“Latin text?”
“Check.”
“Chalk, tape, and spray paint?”
“Check, check, and check,” Dean stuffs it all into the now nearly-bulging bag.
“First aid kit?”
“Hell yeah, check.”
Sam sighs as he gets to the bottom of the list, and scowls halfheartedly at his brother. “Silly string, really?”
“Oh yeah, baby,” Dean grins, an evil gleam in his eyes as he shakes the can and tosses it in. “Check.”
“And candy!? Seriously, Dean...”
“Emergency fuel! I can officially say we're prepared for anything.”
Rolling his eyes, Sam drops the list on the bed beside him. “I really wish you hadn't said that.”
* * * * *
2. Vigilance is key. Supernatural creatures live for the day and night when the veil between the worlds is at its weakest.
The morning of the thirty-first starts with an EMF sweep of the hotel room as soon as they get up. Finding nothing besides an outlet that seriously needs rewiring, the brothers take their turns in the bathroom, one watching the EMF detector and the door and window at all times, and then they head out for breakfast.
It's a tense trip to the diner, both of them glancing in the mirrors almost non-stop, neither daring to speak yet and lose their focus to easy banter. Dean doesn't even drum his fingers on the steering wheel, the Impala silent inside save for their measured breaths.
The same routine follows when they get there. Visually sweeping the diner, they take stock of their surroundings, noting every detail of both the place and the patrons. Three exits, windows on three sides for good surveillance, ten booths, six spots at the counter, two waitresses, one in a fifties-style getup and one dressed like a Raggedy Ann doll, and seven patrons, none in costume, none showing any initial signs of possession or other supernatural influence.
So far, so good.
But the EMF detector has other ideas, shrieking in sudden alarm when a plate of eggs and bacon is set in front of Sam.
“Oh, you've gotta be kidding me,” Dean groans, shoving his own plate away and slumping back against the creaking vinyl of the booth.
Sam scowls at the food sourly and passes the detector over both plates. The whining cry is its final word on the subject.
Taking their coffee to go, the brothers forgo breakfast and get on the road, headed toward Bobby's.
* * * * *
3. Steer clear of supernatural 'acquaintances'. Demons, angels, demigods, and high-powered psychics are to be avoided at all costs.
Dean nearly jumps out of his skin when he glances in the rear view mirror, only to find Castiel sitting primly in the back seat. “Jes-!!” he cuts himself off before hurling a long string of blasphemy at the angel.
Sam turns in the passenger seat, his mouth open in shock and indignation. “Wha-?”
“Your presence is required in a town seventy-three miles west of here, Dean,” Castiel starts, cutting through the pleasantries. “A spirit with mal intent has taken on the guise of-”
“No!” the elder brother interjects, punching an index finer into the air. “No way. The last time you messed with us on Halloween, we had to fight a demon that I swear you made up just to torment us. Find some other hunter to do your dirty work today.”
Castiel works his jaw for a moment, then says, “People will die tonight, if you do not intervene.”
“People always die,” Sam speaks up, “whether we help or not. You're an angel. If it's just a spirit, you should be able to handle it yourself.”
The angel looks out the side window, then down at his lap, as if Sam's point has hit an unintended mark.
Dean narrows his eyes at him. “What?” he demands.
“It's not just a spirit. It is a powerful entity.”
“What is it?” Sam prods him, voice hard.
“The Hare.”
Two sets of eyebrows raise, with a simultaneous, “Huh?”
Castiel seems to fidget under their scrutiny. “You know him by another name. He is a Trickster God.”
Dean's sudden foot on the break and hard jerk of the steering wheel throws gravel up behind the car on the side of the road and sends the three of them lurching forward in their seats. “Oh, hell no,” he grinds out.
“Are you out of your mind!?” Sam glares, face turning purple with building rage. “You have to know what happened the last time we ran into him.”
“I'm very aware of that incident, Sam. But things have changed. He won't challenge either of you, now, not since-”
“We said no, Cas,” Dean seethes. “Now get the hell out of my car.” His fingers tighten around the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. “Now!”
The angel shakes his head, as if disappointed. “I can only hope you'll change your mind,” he says quietly, and then he's gone, the back seat empty again.
Dropping his head back against the seat, Sam says, “Today is just not destined to be our day, is it?”
Dean frowns, flipping on the turn signal to pull the car back onto the road heading in the opposite direction, taking them west. “I'm really startin' to hate that freakin' angel,” he grumbles. “And the damn Trickster, too. Bastard.”
The younger brother scowls. “Join the club.”
* * * * *
4. Pranks are verboten. Period.
Seventy-three miles west puts them in the small mountain town of Three Forks, Montana, not quite halfway back to where they woke up this morning. Things seem quiet enough, though with the Trickster, there's simply no way to tell. Broward County had certainly seemed unassuming, after all.
“I don't like this,” Dean comments as they head down the sidewalk of the main street through town, snacking on a honey bun from the last convenience store they passed.
Sam just scowls again, keeping his focus on the search for anything seeming out of the ordinary.
“I mean, how the hell are we supposed to find the Trickster, when he could be anyone or anything?”
“I don't know,” Sam says. “But I bet we can-”
“Aw, dude!” Dean cuts him off, his mouth full of half-chewed honey bun and his face screwed up in disgust. “What the hell? How did you get salt on this thing? Yuck!”
Sam stops short, turning to his brother with dread spreading over his features. “What?”
Dean swallows dramatically as he tosses the remainder of his late breakfast in a nearby trash can, then grumbles, “I thought we agreed on no pranking today! Dude, that was disgusting!”
“That... wasn't me, Dean. I know the rules, believe me.”
Sam's eyebrows are knitted together so tight that Dean can't even argue, and a sense of mild panic sweeps through him. “Then...”
“Hello, boys,” says a voice behind them, and they turn to find an older woman in a smart business suit standing with her arms crossed over her chest and an eerily familiar wicked gleam in her eyes. “About time you showed up. I was beginning to think you hadn't received my invitation to the party; Castiel was a little hard to convince to send it.”
Dean doesn't miss a beat. “Nice costume. So your real name's the Hare? What, like Bugs Bunny?” he smirks darkly.
The Trickster grins. “Something like that. Catch me if you can.” And with that, he - she? - is gone.
Both brothers swear under their breath.
* * * * *
5. Never accept candy from strangers. And certainly don't eat it.
They spend the next two hours sitting in a local coffeehouse abusing the free wi-fi to see what they can dig up on the Trickster's 'disguise', finally managing to grab some food, until Sam lifts his head from the laptop, a sour expression on his face. “Oh, this is just getting better and better.”
“What'd you find?” Dean asks, popping a piece of chocolate into his mouth.
“This.” He turns the computer around, and Dean sees the Trickster's new face smiling beneath the headline, “New Three Forks Mayor To Host Annual Town Halloween Bash.”
“Shit.”
Sam nods, “Exactly.”
“So we're going to a party. That's just great.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “All right, give me the details.”
* * * * *
Walking into the town's meeting hall at four p.m., Sam and Dean once again take stock of their surroundings, this time with the understanding that the details might change on them. It's gonna be a long evening, keeping their eyes peeled for the slightest changes, but they're ready.
It's just too bad they couldn't bring their emergency duffel into the party with them. Not that they haven't squirreled away about half of their supplies on their persons - their cobbled together hobo costumes have a fair amount of pockets - but still. Too many things got left in the car, and it's making them both nervous.
The hall is decorated with more black and orange and glitter than either of them can stand, and it's quite a surprise that the party is in full swing. How had they not noticed the steady stream of people making their way over? But whatever. Everyone's in costume, some glitzy, some gory, some cute, some not so much, and there's candy everywhere. The center of the hall is filled with what looks like a six-tiered fountain of individually-wrapped candy, pieces spilling over the sides and onto the wide table supporting it. Hands randomly reach in and take out handfuls, though the bowls never seem to get any emptier. And-
Sam catches Dean heading straight for the table, hand outstretched and eyes wide and glassy. He grabs his brother's wrist and puts himself between Dean and the candy, pushing him back. “Nuh-uh. No way. Dean, you know the rules, too. Come on!”
Dean pulls back from him, shaking his head. “The hell?”
“Oh, shit. Don't tell me you were compelled to go for the candy.”
“Um...” Dean's eyes are wide and he looks a little more shaken than Sam's comfortable with. “I think I was.”
Running a hand through his hair, Sam turns to examine the scene a little more closely, careful not to fixate on the fountain of sweets. “Okay, so what's the deal? Poison? Razor blades? Anyone look like they're turning into their costumes or regressing to teenagers?”
Dean smirks at him, then sweeps the scene himself. No one looks like they're about to sprout tentacles or fall over and die. They just seem... happy to be eating the candy. His face scrunches up with confusion. “Nothing's happening. I don't get it.”
“Hmm... All right. Let's just keep a look out for a while. Maybe we can still find the Trickster and deal with him without too causing much damage.”
“Yeah.”
* * * * *
6. Don't get involved with 'ghost hunts'. Some idiot will invariably try to suss out the nastiest spirit around.
An hour into the party, they still haven't spotted the Trickster. Somehow, they think they've been duped, but of course that's probably exactly what happened. People are still going nuts for the never-ending fountain of candy, but there haven't been any effects to speak of, just lots of smiling faces and a seemingly happy crowd. It's almost... eerie.
Feeling like they should just pack it in and get back on the road to try to make Bobby's before the supernatural really starts getting their groove on, Sam and Dean start to head toward the doors, both generally feeling disgruntled about the whole thing. Damned Trickster.
“Going somewhere?”
Speak of the devil.
Turning again, they find him - her - whatever in a set of too-large overalls and a straw hat, face done up with fake freckles and smudges of dirt, and a red handkerchief tied around her neck, smirking like the cat that ate the canary.
“Well, if it isn't Farmer McTricksy,” Dean smirks back. “And here we thought we'd been given the slip.”
“Not hardly. I'm just having a little fun with you. Got other reasons to call you boys here.”
Sam shifts, surreptitiously going for the stake they'd hastily prepared before the party. It's a long shot, but who knows...
Ignoring the subtle move, the Trickster grins and inclines her head toward a group of teenagers flocking toward the door. “Better keep an eye on them. I think their plans for the night are just getting started. And there are things that go bump in the night where they're headed, if you catch my drift.”
Focus shifting almost involuntarily, Dean catches a snippet of their conversation as they're discussing an old farmhouse and a local legend they want to debunk, a la Ghost Hunters. “Fuck,” he curses. “They're gonna get themselves killed.”
Sam's hand is still on the stake hidden in an inside pocket of his tattered trench coat, but his eyes flicker between the teenagers and the Trickster. “This better not be some sick joke.”
The Trickster puts up her hands in mock surrender. “Oh, it's completely legit, I swear. Although, you're gonna have your hands full, so you'd better get going.”
* * * * *
“I can't believe we're doing this, tonight of all nights,” Dean grumbles as they traipse through the woods up to the old house that the gaggle of teens has targeted for their 'debunking'. With the sawed-off tucked under one arm, his pearl-handled pistol tucked into the waistband of his jeans, and the duffel slung over his other shoulder, this time he really is ready for anything.
Sam huffs pointedly. “As if we really had a choice. I swear, the more we try to steer clear of all this, the more we can't escape it. It's like we're cursed.”
“Yeah, or we have an angel and a Trickster that just have it in for us. Assholes.”
“Shh...” Sam stops him, drawing up short and motioning with a hand for Dean to get down and stay quiet.
Looking out into the clearing ahead, Dean sees the group already headed inside, their gear in tow. Not as much as the last group they had to deal with - no Ghost Hunters in the least - but still enough that they're bound to wind up in trouble. And of course, it's too late now to warn them off. Damn kids must have had their stuff ready even before the party.
With a nod to one another, the brothers step quietly out from the tree line, guns at the ready, and a sudden scream pierces the air, followed by a cacophony that simply defies description. Adrenaline racing, they rush into the house to defend the poor, dumb kids that got themselves into this mess.
* * * * *
7. Always have backup. The undead and the unholy will try their damnedest to get you alone.
Sam doesn't know where Dean is anymore. It's been what feels like an hour since they got inside, faced with the ugliest demon-monster-ghost-thing they'd seen in a long while, and were forced to split up to get at all the kids that had come willingly into this place. Too many floors - three at least - and too many corridors and rooms. Too many places for the nasty things of the night to hide and keep the advantage.
Realizing he's completely alone again after sending two more of the teenagers outside, Sam's spine prickles with the sense of the danger he's in. He's not even sure what that thing is, much less how to kill it, even less how to stay ahead of it. Shape-shifters, vampires, werewolves, angry spirits, all things he knows how to deal with, but this... this is a whole different ballgame, and he can't help but blame the Trickster for getting them into this situation. Well, and blame Castiel for being the Trickster's messenger boy. Either way, this thing isn't the usual sort of monster they face, what with all the hallucinations it's given them so far, and there's no way to know what'll happen if they try to fill it full of rock salt or silver bullets. The illusions were dispatched easily enough, but the monster... that's bound to be a different story. Hell, he's got his demon-slaying knife in one hand, just in case, even as the other holds a shotgun.
With his weapons at the ready, Sam keeps his breaths measured as he moves from room to room, waiting and searching. He's not sure what he'll do if he finds that thing, but it's better to stay quiet and not alert it to his presence if he can. The floorboards of the old house don't seem to want to cooperate with that goal, though, and he winces with every creak and groan of the wood, sweat trickling down his temples, his heart thundering in his ears.
If only he had Dean at his back, he'd feel better about this. Not that they'd never been separated on a hunt before, far from it, but since Dean came back from Hell and the game changed its rules right underneath them, they've made it a point to keep within grabbing distance whenever possible. Having been forced to give up on that plan for the duration of this hunt, Sam can't help his involuntary shiver in the cold October air. He doesn't like this situation one bit, especially considering what he thought he saw in one of the rooms on the top floor. If that thing manages to actually corner him, he just... doesn't know.
Turning to get his bearings again, he heads out into another hallway to find the stairs, but he's stopped by a brushing touch on his elbow, and adrenaline floods him in a heartbeat.
* * * * *
8. “Shoot first and ask questions later” does not apply.
As he whirls around, Sam's shotgun is in the air and bearing on its target with the ease of long practice.
“Sammy, no! It's me!” Dean says, his own guns pointed in the air in surrender.
Sam takes a step back, moving toward the stairs, the shotgun still aimed at his brother - or an impostor, he isn't sure yet. The ones upstairs did a damned good impression of Dean, after all. “What did Dad give you on Christmas when you were twelve?” he asks the first of their usual confirmation questions. The other hallucinations-illusions-whatevers didn't get much farther than this one.
“Not a damn thing,” Dean says, shaking his head slightly. “He wasn't even there. But you gave me my pendant.” He points with the pistol in one hand at the gleam of the gold pendant over his chest.
“What did I do to the Impala while you were gone?”
“You douched it the fuck up with a damned iPod.”
Sam narrows his eyes. “Christo.”
“Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria,” Dean smirks.
The corner of his mouth quirking up as relief washes away the terror he'd been gripped with, Sam lowers his gun. “Jesus, Dean, you scared the living shit outta me.”
Dean lowers his own weapons to his sides and steps forward. “Sorry, Sam. I've been looking all over for you. Squared off with three of you downstairs, complete with yellow eyes and temper tantrums when they didn't get their way. None of them even knew the questions, much less the answers.”
“Guess that explains all the gunshots.”
“Yeah. I take it you had your hands full up here, too?”
Sam nods, finally pulling his brother in for a last-minute confirmation hug, hoping Dean doesn't notice the shaking in his arms. What he'd seen... it wasn't pretty. Made yellow-eyed Sam look tame by comparison.
“Anyway,” Dean coughs, pulling away. “All those kids are outside, and that just leaves that thing Tricksy conjured up.” When they reach the head of the stairs, Dean nudges him with his shoulder, and they start to head down, side by side.
“Any idea how to kill it?”
“Not a clue, but my thought is, why not burn the sucker out?”
Sam gives an incredulous look, his anger at the monster warring with disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding?”
“Nope. Been plenty of rain this year, shouldn't be any danger of forest fire.”
At the bottom of the stairs, Sam sheaths the demon-slaying knife and shakes his head at his brother. “All right, lets light it up. Get out the blowtorch.”
* * * * *
9. When in doubt, go to ground. Sometimes the best defense is to just hide and wait it out.
Sam and Dean are on the road again before the fire crew even arrives on the scene, peeling out even as the screams of the dying monster-whatever-the-fuck chase them out with the heat of the flames. With those kids all out and halfway back to safety by now, there's just no point in wasting time anymore. They're both exhausted to the core, dirty, hungry, and know that no hotel will do tonight. If they hurry, they can get to Bobby's before midnight, maybe have time to get cleaned up before they hit the hay, assuming the panic room has a bathroom.
Eyes glazed from the long day and the long drive, they take the highway toward Bobby's in one straight shot, giving their surrogate father a quick phone call to let him know they'd get there soon, possibly coming in hot, considering the Trickster. No rest stops, no gas stops, thanks to filling up in Three Forks. They don't even slow down for the known speed traps, praying silently that the Impala will work a little magic of her own tonight. If they can just cut the three hour trip down to two and a half, everything will be fine...
* * * * *
Pulling at last into Bobby's yard, they both let out heavy breaths of relief. They made it, and it's not even eleven o'clock yet. Sam looks at Dean disbelievingly as they get out of the car, gear in tow, and head for the door. “I don't think I've seen you drive that fast in ages, Dean,” he remarks.
“Well, you know...” his brother says almost sheepishly, before looking away and coughing pointedly into his fist. Neither of them wants to admit just how freaked out they are after what happened in that house. Damned Trickster.
Sam's hand is raised to knock on the door, when Bobby jerks it wide open to let them in, the older man in the hunter equivalent of riot gear, his eyes wide and squirrelly. “Well, don't just stand there, get inside, ya' id'jits!”
The two younger men waste no time in accepting his invitation, and all three are headed down to Bobby's panic room in the span of another heartbeat. “Guess I shouldn't be surprised you're so prepared,” Sam remarks as they get inside the iron room and Bobby clicks the bolt on the door into place.
The older man gives him a scolding sideways glance at that. “It's Halloween, Sam. I'm usually up to my eyeballs in ghosts this time o' year, thanks to the wrecks in the salvage yard. Why do you think I built this thing, anyway? And knowing you got the Trickster on your tail just makes the situation all that more urgent. Bastard's bound to stir up every damn thing in the state. Takin' no chances tonight.”
Sam nods in reply, and Dean's, “No argument here,” is almost lost as the wailing of spirits begins on the other side of the door.
* * * * *
10. Halloween isn't over until sunup.
The sounds of the spirits attacking the wards outside the panic room don't ease up for hours. Screaming, wailing, banging, growling, cursing - it all starts to blend together, becoming a white noise that neither Sam, Dean, nor Bobby even responds to after a while. Dean is even lulled to sleep, much to Sam's confusion, but the younger brother chalks it up to Dean's time spent down below, that it's so indistinguishable from nightmare at this point that it doesn't even faze him.
But then even Sam starts to drift off himself, and suddenly he can't blame Dean anymore for giving up and getting some shut eye. He'll let Bobby watch the door and the wards for the last hour or so...
* * * * *
At some point in the early pre-dawn hours, Dean wakes to the sound of Sam's light snores coming from the cot next to his, interspersed with his brother's whimpers at whatever nightmare is pulling at him in his sleep, and he realizes the wailing of the spirits surrounding the panic room have quieted at last. Scrubbing a hand blearily over his face, he lets his eyes adjust to the low light, finding Bobby still sitting up by the door, muttering a Latin incantation low under his breath.
“Bobby?” he mutters.
The older man pauses in his recitation. “Yeah, boy?”
“Time is it?”
“Little after five. Got another hour and a half before sunup. Get some more sleep.”
Dean scrunches up his face. “Can't,” he says, swinging his legs down onto the floor. “Still too wound up from yesterday, I guess.”
Bobby smirks. “No shit. Tangling with the Trickster and whatever that thing was he conjured up against you can't have been an easy ride.”
“It...” The elder Winchester takes a deep breath. “It was all fake, wasn't it?”
“Welcome to Halloween, Dean. You boys have had it easy until now.”
“And yet, all the crazy shit always seems to find us on that day, anyway.”
“The curse of bein' a hunter.”
Dean nods, then asks, “It's always gonna be like this, isn't it?” Only, it's more of a statement than a question, and he knows the answer already.
Bobby smirks again, ruefully. “Yup.”
* * * * *
With the sun shining in through the windows of Bobby's kitchen on the morning of November first, Sam and Dean waste no time digging into the older hunter's patented post-hunt breakfast, their plates loaded with sausage, scrambled eggs, and hot, buttered biscuits, steaming mugs of hot coffee already halfway to needing refills.
“Gotta repack the duffel later,” Sam says between bites.
“And add 'Trickster stake' to the list for next year,” Dean adds, getting a nod in response.
Walking back into the kitchen from the living room where he was building a fresh fire in the hearth, Bobby grumbles, “Next year, you'll both be here well before Halloween, and you're not leavin' 'til well after.”
Dean and Sam glance at each other and chuckle, and the younger brother shrugs, “Sounds good to me.”
“Sounds like a plan to me, too,” Dean agrees. If things somehow manage to work out in their favor next year, they won't even need their ten steps for survival. He hopes.
* * * * *