by Jane Davitt

"They get candy." Sammy said it patiently, slowly, as if Dean didn't get it, as if the whole thing was something new to him.

He got it. He was older; he'd lived through more of these nights than Sammy had. Hell, he even remembered wearing costumes, though he'd die before telling Sammy that, or what it was. He freaking got it.

"They're bozos. Idiots." Dean took a deep breath and pronounced the final slur. "Normal."

Sam sniffed, clearly unconvinced that they were better than the mundanes. "They get candy."

Dean stared out of the motel window at the bogeyman looking for a bed, the vampire looking for a neck, the--well, he didn't know what Elvis wanted, but it probably wasn't a banana and peanut butter sandwich.

Kids in costumes? Maybe. Probably. And maybe it was raining candy out there, like a miracle, but he had his orders.

"We stay here, doors locked, salt down, and we don't answer the door to anyone but Dad, and only if he knows the password."

Sam's lip quivered, just a little, and you could tell he was about to say 'candy' again. Damn. Damn. Dean sighed and went over to the bed, flipped up the mattress, and retrieved the stack of candy bars he'd shoplifted earlier, the chocolate misshapen because California was hot in October and he'd had to shove it inside his T-shirt. The A/C in the room had stopped it oozing.

Still tasted fine.


"Trick or treat?" Sam said as if trying the words out, a smile blossoming.

Dean shook his head. Five years old and Sam still didn't get it.

"It's never a treat, Sammy. Always a trick. You gotta learn that."

He went back to looking out at the darkness, waiting for Dad.

And tried to forget that he'd once been a pirate, a cool one, with a cutlass and an eye patch.

The bunny with the fluffy tail was a nightmare, not a memory.

Dean Winchester didn't do cute and plushy.


And he didn't eat carrots.

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