Disclaimer—Recognizable characters belong either to Josh Schwartz and Chris Fedak or Eric Kripke. No copyright infringement intended. Any similarity to events or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Author's Notes—I love Halloween, Chuck, and Supernatural. The meshing of those three things only seemed natural. Hope y'all enjoy. Endless thanks to the wonderfully talented Night_Lotus_Blossom for being so kind to beta this for me. So glad to know you, NL. Much love! All mistakes are mine.

Timeline: Season 1 for Chuck; Season 3 for Supernatural.

Jenkies—While preparing for a fundraiser for the Westside Medical Center Pediatrics Wing, some peculiar things start happening. If only there were professionals to take care of the issues… Sequel to Zoinks!


Ellie Bartowski frowned. While they were going for 'scary,' they weren't going for 'terrifying,' and John Casey was rather good at applying red paint to look like blood splatter in the butcher's room of the haunted house labyrinth they were creating. It looked… beyond authentic. Playing with the charm on her necklace, she hesitantly spoke. "Um, John?"

The large man, dressed in all black, turned.

"Maybe a little less blood?"

"Isn't this a butcher's shop?"

"Yes, but… we don't want children having nightmares, do we?"

He grunted slightly. "I'll… see what I can do."

She offered him a soft smile. "Thank you." Before she left, she touched his arm lightly. "You're doing a great job, by the way. I think we're going to have the best haunted house fundraiser ever."

Casey looked at her, his blue eyes meeting her gaze for a moment. He wasn't exactly fond of being touched, but he knew she wasn't a threat. Hesitantly, he nodded.

Ellie moved along the darkened corridor to the next room, the jail cell.

Her brother, Chuck, was mournfully singing as he screwed the fake sink to the wall. "Nobody knows… the trouble I've seen…"

"Maybe not yet, but in a week's time, they will," Ellie returned.

He jumped, turning to see her. "Oh, hey, sis…" He chuckled slightly. "How's it lookin'?"

She nodded. "Looks pretty amazing. Everybody's doing so tremendously. I'm even a little scared and we have all the lights on instead of the strobe lights, the black lights…"

"It's a little different, though, being on this side of the haunted house. The knowing-what's-coming side."

"For the most part," she agreed.

"How's Sarah doing?" he asked, moving toward the bars, leaning against them lightly—while they could withstand some pressure, they weren't actual bars; they could cave if he wasn't careful.

"She's got some amazing makeup skills. I wouldn't have guessed that she wanted to be a Hollywood makeup artist."

"She's… full of surprises," Chuck said with a nod. While he couldn't be sure that it wasn't true, he had a good guess that it wasn't, that it was just Sarah Walker's elite spy skills at work.

"Well, she's also full of luck, to have caught you."

"Aww, shucks, sis, are we back at this? This relationship is so… new, y'know?"

"I sense good things. That's all I'm saying."

Chuck raised an eyebrow. "Are you psychic now?"

"Call it… sister's intuition," grinned Ellie.

It was hard not to call it a good thing when his sister's smile lit up her whole face. Chuck relented. "All right, then."

"Your friend John is doing a great job, too. They're both scary good at this…"

Chuck shrugged a little, imagining how they might've used those skills before, faking deaths of important people, tricking international criminals… The possibilities were endless. "Did I ever tell you about the time, at Stanford, when we went to a real haunted house? Me, Bryce, Jill… some others."

Ellie's grin shifted, from proud and happy, to bemused. "A real one, Chuck? Ghosts aren't real…"

"Well, no, we didn't see any then either, but it was… it was a pretty fun night, if a little scary."

"I'm glad you lived to tell the tale… and it's probably a good thing you didn't tell me you were planning on going at the time."

"Yeah, Bryce said you'd talk me out of going."

"Bryce always was smart…"

"Yeah, he was…"

Rather than dwelling on the past, Ellie quickly led the conversation forward. "You need anything to finish this up?"

Chuck glanced around the room. "Nah. I'll have us up and going in no time," he said, squeezing the trigger on his cordless power drill.

"I'll leave you to it, then," she said before slipping further down the maze.

The hallway was again painted a simple black. While she knew that some haunted houses operated with better budgets, and even the hallways were haunted, they were doing the best they could with the money they had to set up. They needed to do better than breaking even, if they wanted to be of any help to the hospital at all, which was why Ellie had recruited Chuck, who had in turn recruited Sarah, Casey, and even Morgan Grimes.

While she was busy pondering how much was left in her budget—pennies mostly—she was completely distracted. So, when a deafening bang sounded in the corridor behind her, she shrieked.


Casey dropped the bucket of red paint, never minding that it sloshed out a bit onto his pants and the floor as he raced toward the sound of the scream. As he passed Chuck in the jail cell, the Intersect had trouble trying to get out.

"Ellie," Chuck said. "I know that was Ellie!"

"Stay put, Bartowski," Casey barked, as he rushed deeper into the haunted house.

"But—I—"

Casey didn't respond, he just continued on, finding Ellie crouched down, her arms over her head. "Ellie?"

She was shaking as she looked back at him. At seeing his familiar, concerned face, she moved, like a tightly coiled spring suddenly loosed, into his arms. "John!"

His trained eyes scanned the area. There didn't seem to be anything necessarily out of place, excepting for the square hole in the wall behind her. He knew that Devon Woodcomb had been putting in what he'd called "awesome gags"—things that would happen when the visitors were distracted by things across the hall. Windows would appear in the otherwise solid wall, and someone in makeup could reach out and scare the visitors. But, there was no one in the narrow corridor behind that wall. And he knew, too, that the windows were all latched securely in place the night before, when Devon had put them in. It seemed highly unlikely that it could've fallen on its own. "You're all right," he assured her.

She wasn't so sure, and she didn't let go of him immediately, not until Chuck finally arrived. It wasn't exactly a good image, she was sure, to be in someone else's arms, when her boyfriend was somewhere on the premises.

"What happened?" Chuck asked, fearful.

"I think we had a prop malfunction," Casey said, peeking his head through the opening in the wall. Both the gate latch and its receptacle seemed in good working order—the screws were tight and secure. There was no way it could've opened without someone interfering, but he wasn't about to say that in front of a terrified Ellie.

"I told Devon not to put those up yet…" Ellie said, feeling her pounding heart with a hand on her chest.

"Why don't you go get some air?" Casey asked.

Ellie nodded.

"Bartowski, send Walker back here," Casey said quietly.

Chuck looked at him questioningly, but nodded.

Casey frowned deeply once he was alone. He smelled something out of place. It seemed metallic, but the next room was filled with whirring motors—a rusted out boiler room. The only way to access the tiny room with the fake window, though, was through a carefully camouflaged panel in the boiler room. As he entered, he pulled his sidearm, carefully entering and maneuvering through the tiny corridor. There were pieces of reflective tape every few feet on the floor, and two pieces crossed to form an "x" in front of the window, because the room would be lit only with black light on the nights the haunted house was in operation.

Upon closer inspection, he noticed some bit of goo on the wall, near where the latch had been securely fastened at the top of the fake window. For lack of a better description, it looked like thick, sludgy motor oil. Dipping his finger into it, it felt cold, and it slid easily between his index finger and thumb. It didn't smell like oil; it was nearly overpoweringly metallic, which didn't make much sense at all.

"Casey?" Sarah asked, emerging into the corridor from the jail cell room.

"In here," Casey said, still puzzling over the goo on his fingers.

"What is that?"

"I don't know. Got something I can store it in?"

Sarah checked the pockets of the apron she wore, coming up with a small round plastic case, with a lid that screwed on. "It held contacts. Morgan looks pretty scary…"

Casey scoffed, scooping some of the goo into the case. "Grimes? Scary?"

"I do good work."

"I'll get this analyzed."

"You don't think somebody's trying to get to Chuck here, do you?"

"He's our best intelligence resource. Somebody's always trying to get to him, whether they realize it or not."

"But, going so far as to do something to a haunted house for charity?"

"I don't put anything past anybody," Casey responded gruffly.

"It's getting late. Maybe we should call it a day, clear out of here?"

"Agreed," Casey said with a grunt.


The silence was deafening, and not just because it meant that they could hear the rumble of the well-tuned Impala louder than normal. Dean Winchester's jaw was set tightly, so tightly it might've cracked a lesser man's jaw. His brother Sam stared out the window, watching the scenery roll past. Sam was willing to chalk it up to bad luck, but Dean had insisted that it had been intentional. They were wasting precious time, having to go on the hunt for replacement parts to their paranormal investigative equipment. While the off-the-rack models were good for the amateurs, the sensitivity was severely lacking when it came to what they, the professionals, needed.

And considering the duffel of equipment had been tossed over a fence only to be landed on by one lanky, younger brother and crushed with a completely heartbreaking crunching sound, it meant having to restock.

Dean pulled into the parking lot of the Buy More in Burbank, California. "I'll get the pieces for the EMF; you get the infrared."

"I don't think they sell Walkmans here…"

The elder Winchester offered a fake laugh. "I said I'd get the EMF, didn't I?"

"It was an accident, Dean; you can't hold it against me forever."

"Considering forever's pretty short for me? I absolutely can."

Sam closed his eyes. He knew that Dean was close to death—too close for his liking—and it was because of him, which wasn't exactly a settling thought either. He was still hopeful that they could turn the tide, that they could undo the deal that Dean made with the crossroad's demon, but he wasn't sure if that meant that he would go back to being dead in his brother's place or not. The whole thing made his head hurt. While he didn't really remember being dead, he occasionally saw the look in his brother's eyes, the look that clearly said without words that he was lucky to be alive and walking around.

In Sam's opinion, they were both too young to die. They had so much work to do. Even with Azazel gone—the impetus for their hunting—there were other things that threatened humanity and that needed to be killed. While there were other hunters, there were plenty of things to hunt.

While Dean had hunted on his own before, Sam really hadn't and didn't really want to. He wasn't sure what would happen at the end of the year. If he didn't succeed in finding some way to fix it, he didn't want to consider the alternative.

As they entered the store, they immediately divided to conquer. As Dean headed for the audio side of the store, Sam headed for the visual.

The overly made up Anna Wu watched the long-legged, lanky Winchester look at video display screens. Grinning, she slipped from where she'd sat perched on the Nerd Herd desk to make her way toward him. "Hello there…"

Sam glanced at her, offering a quick nod. "Hi."

"Is there… something I can help you find? Something you need?" she asked, running her painted fingernails along her ID lanyard.

"If I need help, I will let you know," he told her as politely as he could.

"Because if there's something that you want to see, I'd be more than happy to show it to you…"

Sam felt increasingly uncomfortable with her there. More than that, he felt eyes on him and turned, spotting yet another Nerd Herder standing there, his head tilted slightly to one side, gazing longingly at her, thankfully, and not him, but when the older man with wild, unkempt hair looked at Sam, he made a threatening gesture, running a thumb across his neck. However, the man continued, adding slashes across his wrists, then a rather embarrassing Psycho impersonation.

"Jeff!" hissed someone in another aisle, and the man stopped.

"Well, thank you, but, I'm… I'm fine," Sam said, picking up a display screen he felt he could add onto their partially destroyed rig.

"Can I take that to check you out? To check out for you?" she corrected.

Sam moved to flee the aisle, choosing to ignore her last question. As he did so, he nearly ran into yet another tall, lanky person with floppy hair talking with the guy who'd been staring. It was someone who looked familiar… He blinked. "Chuck?"

The Intersect turned, his dark eyes widening. "Sam?"

Sam nodded, a smile forming on his face. "How are you? How've you been?"

"I could ask you the same," he said, moving to envelop his old college pal in a hug. "I…" He pulled back. "I was so sorry to hear about Jess…"

Jeff took the moment to slink back, extricating himself from the disciplinary discussion he'd been having with Chuck moments before.

Sam gave a slightly pained smile. "It's been difficult."

"I can imagine. Either we're bad luck or we're lucky… Bryce died, too, earlier this year."

"Bryce? You're kidding…"

"It was a shock to me, too."

"I'm sorry."

"Like I said… either bad luck or lucky, I'm really not sure which. How's… how's law? Are you practicing in California?"

Sam cleared his throat uncomfortably. "After Jess, I didn't go back."

"I… well, as you can see, I didn't exactly go far either," Chuck said, showing Sam the ID on his pocket protector.

"A job's a job. Something you do and get paid for, that's… respectable." Sam felt a wave of sudden shame.

"What are you up to now?" Chuck asked.

"Oh, y'know, just… wandering, really, on the road with my brother. Taking a break from the daily grind."

"Your brother?"

Sam suddenly felt panicked, as he remembered Chuck had seen his brother before, and Sam hadn't bothered to introduce them. After all, he was trying to maintain his reputation and introducing that "creepy guy" as his brother wouldn't have gone over well. He hoped Chuck didn't remember that night as clearly as he did. "My older brother, Dean."

"I didn't realize you had an older brother…"

"We weren't close for a while, but we are now again." Sam glanced around, spotting Dean, with an armload of items, heading toward him. "I hate to run, Chuck, but I kinda have to… have to go."

"You can't even spare a lunch? There's this pretty good hot dog place next door…"

"I really don't know. My brother's on a timetable…"

"I'd love to meet him at least. You remember Ellie, don't you?"

"Best Thanksgivings ever, spending them with you and Ellie and your friend… Matt?"

"Morgan," Chuck corrected easily.

"Morgan, that's right," he said with a nod.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, appearing suddenly in the aisle. "Let's go."

"Dean, real fast… this is Chuck, from Stanford. Chuck, this is my brother, Dean."

Chuck took a step toward him, holding his hand out to him. "Any brother of Sam's has gotta be great. This guy, here, one of my best friends in college," he said, nodding toward Sam.

Dean, however, didn't have a hand to extend, considering his arms were laden with packages. "Nice to meet you, but we gotta jet."

"Even you guys have to eat, right? Chuck said. "There's a place right next door, won't take ten minutes once we order, I promise."

Seeing the puppy dog look on his brother's face, Dean rolled his eyes. "You guys go on. Order me something edible, Sam, and I'll check out. Let you catch up…"

Sam carefully placed the screen atop Dean's armload.

"It's the Wienerlicious. And it's all delicious over there," Chuck said.

"Can't wait," Dean said, with his best fake smile that Sam recognized instantly.

While he was thankful that Dean was speaking to him cordially in front of Chuck, he knew that it meant Dean would take his meal to go.

Chuck glanced back at Casey, who had been watching—leering, really—from the aisle over. "Going on lunch break," he called. "Gotta introduce one of my best friends from college to Sarah…"

"Sarah?" Sam asked.

"My, uh… my girlfriend," Chuck said with a nod. "She works over there. She's… she's somethin' else."

"Can't wait to meet her."

Casey watched as they started to go, as Dean headed for the checkout. He moved back toward the home theater room, to give Sarah the heads-up that Chuck was coming with an unknown, to be on alert, and to let him know if she needed help.

Once Dean had placed everything on the counter to check out, Chuck looked back at him. His brown eyes landed on the unique pendant he wore around his neck, and then his gaze unfocused. Chuck was bombarded with images—police reports, grizzly crime scene photos, and notices of Dean Winchester's death.

As his mind cleared and he stepped into the sunshine with Sam, he chuckled nervously. "So, what is it that your brother does? When he's not on a road trip and buying a lot of surveillance type equipment?"

Sam glanced at him, remembering the story he'd told to their mutual friend Becky. While he wasn't sure if Chuck had kept up with Becky, Sam did feel that Becky would protect their identity, that she might remember the initial story. "He's a cop. He's… curious and paranoid by nature."

"Oh, yeah? That's… that's interesting… Both brothers, interested in the law… I do remember you talking about your dad, how you said that going to school made you like the black sheep… is he a cop, too?"

The lie tasted terrible, but he said it anyway. "Yeah. Yeah, he was."

Chuck caught the past-tense. "He's gone?"

"About a year, year and a half ago now, I guess." Sam paused in their walk. "That's really weird to think about."

"I'm so sorry, Sam."

Sam shrugged.

As they entered the Wienerlicious, Sarah smiled at them. "Guten tag."

Chuck walked with Sam to the counter. "Sarah, this is one of my best friends from college, Sam Winchester."

Sarah mentally checked the list of people Bryce talked about from Stanford, and she did vaguely remember a Sam. "It's very nice to meet you, Sam."

"You, too," Sam said with a nod.

"And he has a big brother, Dean. Dean Winchester. They're on a road trip, it's um… it's interesting, how he's a cop," he said, doing his best to subtly use finger quotes. "Really… flashy…"

"Oh, wow," Sarah said, putting on her best innocent smile as she turned to Sam. "Does he carry a weapon?"

"He has permits, being a cop and all," Sam said, realizing that something felt suddenly wrong. "Why?"

In one swift movement, Sarah hit a button on the underside of the counter and drew her service weapon, aiming it squarely at Sam. "Call Casey," she told Chuck.

"And tell him what?"

"What you flashed on."

Sam stood still, his hands up. "What's going on, Chuck?"

"Just… I'm sorry, Sam…" He fumbled for his cell phone.


Casey listened as Chuck described what he'd seen in his flash, watching Dean from cover. As Chuck explained, he saw the familiar bulge at the back of Dean's waistband—it was where he hid his weapon, too, while undercover. "On it," he responded quietly.

As soon as the elder Winchester checked out, Casey followed him into the parking lot.

While Dean felt there was someone following him, he didn't properly have an opportunity to react, as Casey tackled him to the ground.

Dean felt his weight and that of the man on top of him combined, crushing their newly purchased equipment. "Son of a bitch," he grumbled.

"Pretty active for someone who's supposed to be a dead man," Casey grunted before hauling Dean to his feet, holding him in a headlock.

While Dean struggled, he only managed a few well placed elbows to Casey's gut. He wasn't able to do much damage, not being held the way that he was.

It wasn't easy, but Casey succeeded in hauling Dean to the Wienerlicious.

Chuck unlocked the door, letting them in, and Dean was thrown into the center of the room.

Before Dean could pull his weapon, Casey had his drawn, aimed at Dean's chest.

Sam sighed heavily. "I'm going to go with 'bad luck,' Chuck."


Stay tuned…

Lines from the next installment:

Moving to pick up the box that had somehow moved halfway across the room, she felt the room suddenly grow colder, cold enough that she wished she had a sweatshirt or jacket. Rubbing absently at her arm, she bent to collect the box before turning back to where she'd been working.

A woman stood before her whose hair was unkempt and clothes were dated; her head was tilted at a strange angle.

Ellie dropped the box, fighting against the urge to scream. "I'm sorry, we're not opened yet. You'll have to come back this weekend."

"You should leave. Now."