Sam glanced at the boy crouched beside him.
"Do I really have to do this?" he asked and peered nervously at the dilapidated house just a few feet away.
The building was old and run-down. Its wooden walls showing through dingy, flaking paint of no discernable colour; the concrete walkway was crumbling, with weeds poking through the cracks, the grass that made up the lawn was at least knee-high on an adult, even higher on an nine-year old. The gardens had long ago gone to seed, the plants dried and brittle. Fallen leaves covered every inch of the yard and walkway with no indication that they would be raked into a pile and then stuffed into a large plastic garbage bag.
"You want to hang out with us, don't you?" the boy squatting beside Sam, replied with a question of his own.
The nine-year old thought for a moment and then sighed, "Yeah."
"Good," Travis smiled toothily and turned to another boy huddled close by, "You got the eggs, Jordan?"
Jordan, a pudgy boy with his blonde hair nearly shaved off completely in a buzz cut, nodded and pulled a twelve-pack carton of eggs from the inside of his army green coat.
"We won't get caught?" Sam asked as the eggs traded hands and Travis shook his head.
"No one cares about her," he said confidently, "Everyone in town says she's nuts."
"Calm down, Sam," Jordan chuckled and punched the boy in the arm hard enough to hurt, "Ms. Gadzinski's as blind as a bat."
"Yeah," Travis added, "Just don't ever go into her house."
Sam stared at the two other boys from his class who had somehow convinced him that if he wanted to be their friend, he had to throw eggs at the door of some poor old woman's house on the evening of October thirtieth, Devil's Night.
"What do you mean?" Sam asked, feel less and less comfortable with this whole situation.
"You're not from here so you've never heard of Brucey McDowell," Travis told him.
"Who's that?" Sam asked, thinking he could prolong the inevitable by asking as many questions as possible.
"Brucey lived on the same street as my Dad," Travis explained, "Way back when he was our age."
"Were they friends?" Sam interrupted.
Jordan snorted and Travis made a face, "No way! Brucey was slow; he had Down syndrome or something. No one hung out with him; but everyone knew him."
"Oh," Sam muttered and waited for the other boy to continue.
"Brucey always had this bright orange Frisbee," Travis told him, "Dad said he took that thing with him wherever he went. Never saw Brucey without it."
"One day, my Dad was riding his bike down the street here, with some of his buddies and they saw Brucey playing with his Frisbee at the retard school right there," Travis pointed across the street to the old building no longer used as an educational institution of any kind. Sam thought it looked as well maintained as Ms. Gadzinski's house.
"They stopped to watch Brucey play with that stupid Frisbee for a few minutes," Travis told him, "Watching him come closer and closer to the road."
"He didn't get hit by a car?" Sam asked nervously.
"Nah, Brucey didn't," Jordan assured him, having heard the story of the McDowell boy many times.
"My Dad and his friends watched as Brucey gives his Frisbee one good hard toss and the thing flies right across the street and onto Ms. Gadzinski's porch," to add effect, Travis pointed his mitten-clad hand at the house directly across from them.
"Brucey runs across the street and right up to the front door of the house," Travis continues, "Dad said he bent down to pick up the Frisbee, his ass in the air, and the door opens. Ms. Gadzinski's standing there, smiling at Brucey."
"Because he's stupid, Brucey just smiled right back at her and says hi or whatever. My Dad wasn't close enough to hear but Ms. Gadzinski says something to Brucey and takes his hand and leads him inside, closing the door and leaving that Frisbee out on the porch."
"My Dad and his buddies waited about ten or fifteen minutes- he thinks- for Brucey to come out but he doesn't. After that, they get bored and ride away and forget all about the kid, until the next morning."
Sam's eyes widen, "What happened?"
"Seems Brucey never came home," Travis told him, "His parents called the cops and found out my Dad and his friends had seen Brucey go into Ms. Gadzinski's house so they went and questioned her. They even searched her place but there was no sign of Brucey. He just disappeared."
"Maybe he ran away," Sam suggested, but even as the words left his mouth he knew it was a dumb comment.
Travis shook his head, "Everyone knows that old bat did something to Brucey but no one can prove it. Not even the police all those years ago."
There was a pregnant pause before Jordan spoke up, "Let's get this over with, I'm freezing."
Travis grinned and opened the carton of eggs, to Sam, "You're up."
The boy swallowed and peered anxiously at the dilapidated house. Now the car that they were hiding behind didn't seem like enough cover against whatever or whoever dwelled behind its weathered walls.
"Oh come on! Throw a couple of eggs and then duck out of sight, its easy," Travis growled, "We both did it and we're still here."
Sam steeled his nerves. He couldn't let the other boys know he was scared. He didn't want to be labeled a chicken for the rest of time in this backwater town.
He thought of Dean, who now thought he was staying late at school to do an extra credit assignment, and knew his big brother wouldn't be frightened of some senile old woman and some story probably made up on the spot to make him pee himself.
Reaching out, he gripped one of the eggs in his fingers, gently so he wouldn't crush it and drew it from its cradle of cardboard.
Peering around the bumper of the car, Sam had a fantastic view of Ms. Gadzinski's front door. Curling his fingers around the egg as though it were a baseball, the nine-year old stood up so that he could see over the hood of the vehicle, drew back his arm and flung the raw egg towards the house.
"Get down!" Travis cried and pulled Sam down by the hem of his jacket.
Sam crouched behind the car beside the other two boys, breathing hard, waiting for something to happen.
After a moment, Travis held out the carton of eggs again, "Throw another one."
Sam nodded and picked up a second egg, stood and threw it at Ms. Gadzinski's front door. Just before he crouched back down, he saw a slimy, yellowish smear that had trialed down the front of the door from the first egg.
"Maybe she's not home," Sam panted, "Or she would have come out by now, right?"
Jordan and Travis shrugged their shoulders.
"Third time's a charm?" Travis asked and Sam picked up another egg, took a deep breath and stood.
Ms. Gadzinski was standing in the open doorway to her house, hands on her hips, a scowl on her dried prune-like face.
Sam gasped in surprise and the egg slid out of his fingers to smash on asphalt beside him.
The old woman stepped over the threshold and held up one hand towards him, gnarled index finger pointed at his chest.
"Get away, ty malu draniu! Zabije cie!"
For an elderly woman, Ms. Gadzinski's voice was terrifying strong and loud, and the boys were running down the street, horrified, before they even realized they were moving.
"Holy crap!" Jordan stopped running first, panting, hands on his knees.
Travis and Sam skid to a halt and struggled to catch their breath.
"Did she… see you?" Travis asked, all the while breathing heavily.
"I… I think so…" Sam admitted, his heart pounding in his chest. He was only ever this frightened when he went on hunts with his father and brother.
"Don't… Don't worry…" Travis told him, "You won't get into trouble."
"What… what did she yell at you?" Jordan asked.
"I don't know," Sam muttered, "Something in Polish. It sounded like a threat."
"What's she gonna do? She's just some crazy old woman," Travis asked, "You'll be fine."
Sam nodded but didn't feel good at all.
"So, does this mean I can hang out with you guys?" he asked, trying not to look too hopeful.
Travis shook his head, "No way! You were supposed to throw all the eggs. That was the deal."
"But… Ms. Gadzinski…" Sam stammered, shocked by this turn of events.
Jordan and Travis just laughed and turned away, walking side by side down the leaf-littered sidewalk, beneath the cloudy grey sky.
W
"Hey Short Stuff," Dean greeted as Sam opened the door to their motel room, "Did you get that project or whatever it was finished?"
"Yeah," the nine-year old muttered.
The older boy frowned, "You okay?"
Sam nodded, "Just tired. Is Dad back yet?"
"He just went out to get us dinner," Dean told him, "So it looks like you showed up just in time."
Sam smiled and sat down on the end of the bed farthest from the door.
Dean had the television on and was watching The Night of the Living Dead.
"How can you watch that?" Sam asked and laid down on the bed, his legs hanging over the end, "We practically live that every day."
"Sammy, when have you ever hunted a zombie?" Dean asked and the nine-year old sighed, "Never?"
"At least they're one monster that doesn't exist," the thirteen-year old muttered to himself but Sam heard.
"Yeah," the younger boy agreed.
Both children looked up at the sound of the motel room door opening and John stepped into the room, holding a large brown paper bag and a drink tray holding three cups of soda.
"Burgers?" Dean asked and hurried over to their father.
John nodded and then noticed his youngest son was home.
"When did you get in?" he asked.
"Couple of minutes ago," Sam replied and sat up.
John brought the food over to the small desk sitting in one corner of the room and opened the paper bag, handing Dean and paper-wrapped sandwich and holding one out to his youngest.
Sam stood and made his way over, taking the burger from his father. As he waited for the man to hand out the French fries and drinks, the nine-year old surreptitiously gave his Dad an once-over.
This time of the year was always the hardest for John Winchester, when the anniversary of his wife's death was near. He had made it a tradition to get good and properly drunk at least two days before that fateful date, if not more, and for a few days afterwards as well.
Sam didn't smell any booze on his father's breath when he spoke, couldn't hear a slur in his words, there was no redness to his eyes either. John seemed to be breaking tradition this year, it seemed.
As the three Winchesters sat quietly eating their fast-food dinner, Sam sensed his father was waiting for something. He wondered if somehow John had found out about him throwing eggs at Ms. Gadzinski's house.
"Hmm," John cleared his throat; "Boys," he began.
Sam relaxed a bit; if Dean was involved, than surely this wasn't about his act of vandalism.
"I was thinking today that maybe you'd like to go out Trick-or-Treating this year?"
Sam stopped chewing his mouthful of burger and stared at his father. Maybe John had been drinking after all.
"Really?" Sam asked, trying to keep a note of skepticism from his voice.
John nodded, "Yeah, why not? Other kids will be going out tomorrow and pretty soon you'll both be too old for that kind of thing."
"There's just one problem," Dean spoke up, "We don't have any costumes."
The elder Winchester frowned, glanced at his watched then looked back at his sons, "There's a Value Village a block from here that should still be open."
Dean looked to his brother, "Let's go then."
Sam put his half-eaten burger down and stood, feeling a sense of urgency, as though if they didn't move quickly enough John might change his mind and not allow his sons to go out to gather candy.
Within five minutes the Winchesters were all seated in the Impala, pulling out of the motel parking lot, prepared to look for Halloween costumes.
Sam couldn't help but feel excited. Since his father was usually two sheets to the wind or else focused on a hunt, the nine-year old had only ever gone out for Halloween a handful of times with his brother. Sam couldn't remember going out Trick-or-Treating with John at all, even though he knew that he had when he was only six months old, mere days before his mother's death. Dean told him Mary had made him an angel costume, complete with wings, a white onesie and silver halo. The older boy had gone out- and reaped all the sweet, sticky rewards because his baby brother was far too young for candy- dressed as his favourite super hero, Batman.
John was right; the Value Village was still open. Parking near the building, the three Winchesters exited the vehicle, the two younger ones almost bouncing with excitement. Stepping into the store, the boys' eyes lit up like it was Christmas morning. There were rows upon rows of Halloween costumes, new and gently used, decorations and props for those who really wanted to get into the spirit of the holiday.
Even though it was the night before All Hallow's Eve, the store was filled with customers, chatting and laughing. From the overhead speakers, 'The Monster Mash' played on repeat, much to the chagrin of the employees.
John led the boys past the brand-new costumes in the front of the store and stopped at the numerous racks of donations. Surveying the choices with discrimination only children can have, the brothers wanted to make the most of the night and so would not settle for just anything.
"Look at this!" Dean pulled a rubbery mask down from the shelf atop the rack and pulled it over his head.
A zombie with grey skin, open sores oozing green goo, bloodshot eyes and jutting, yellow teeth leered at Sam.
"Brrraaiinnnsss," Dean moaned, holding his arms out stiffly towards his sibling.
The younger boy chuckled, before returning to searching the racks.
"Can I get this one?" Dean asked John.
The father took the mask from his son and checked the price tag. Approving, the hunter nodded, "Why don't you see if you can find a costume to go with it?"
The thirteen-year old nodded and began rifling through the wide assortment of costumes hanging on the racks.
Sam flipped through the costumes carefully. He wasn't exactly sure what he wanted to dress up as for Halloween but he had a feeling he'd know as soon as he found something special.
As John helped Dean look for something to go with his zombie mask, Sam couldn't help but think back to the events of just a few hours earlier. He felt bad for throwing eggs at some old immigrant woman's door and he still stung from the fact that the boys who had convinced him to do such a thing hadn't even wanted to be his friend in the first place. It was difficult enough trying to build friendships when his family moved so frequently, but now he just felt stupid for his childish act of vandalism. He didn't even know Ms. Gadzinski at all; she could be just a kind, lonely old lady. Sam guessed it didn't really matter; they'd be moving on soon anyway and he wouldn't see Travis or Jordan or the elderly Polish woman again.
As Sam mused, his hand paused in its automatic search of the costumes and he smiled, pulling the item from the rack and holding it up for John to see. It was a red Power Ranger costume, complete with mask.
"What about this one?" the boy asked his father.
John reached out and quickly read the price tag before nodding.
Dean glanced over at Sam's choice and made a face but the nine-year old didn't care. He liked the Power Rangers, just a group of regular kids who were drawn together to fight the forces of evil.
Now that the boys had their costumes picked- Dean had found an old pair of blue jeans that had seen better days and an oversized plaid shirt that would be a better fit for John than him- they headed to the front of the store to pay for them.
As they waited, Sam watched kids and parents going through the brand new costumes; everything from black dresses and pointed hats with fake grey hair attached for witches, to plastic fangs and plastic stakes for vampires, to sparkly pink princess dresses and shiny plastic armour for knights were on sale.
Despite the frivolity happening all around them, the Winchesters remained a somewhat dour trio. It only made sense, though, because they knew, better than anyone else that the monsters everyone pretends to be during Halloween really roam the streets and they don't just appear on October thirty-first.
"Would you like to donate a dollar to the Diabetes Foundation?" the cashier asked as John paid for his sons' costumes and the hunter shook his head. As she packed the costumes into a bag, she added two buckets shaped like pumpkins, "Happy Halloween."
The hunter grimaced ever so slightly and grabbed the plastic bag the girl had placed the costumes in, handing the orange Jack-O-Lantern buckets to his sons. Sam and Dean followed their father out to the parking lot obediently, barely able to believe that they would actually be allowed to go out Trick-Or-Treating the next evening.
W
Stepping into his classroom the next morning was a bit nerve-wracking for Sam; he was afraid Jordan and Travis would have told everyone he was a chicken or something and he'd be in for one hell of a day. He shouldn't have worried though; Travis and Jordan had said nothing to their classmates and said nothing to Sam, either.
Although the atmosphere was festive and many students had come to school in their costumes- Sam and Dean hadn't- the nine-year old wasn't feeling the same gaiety as the other children his own age. The classroom was decorated with black and orange streamers, fake cobwebs with plastic spiders and real carved Jack-O-Lanterns. The teacher promised a bit of a party for the last period before the end of the day, with punch and snacks; the excitement of the day made learning difficult for all of Sam's classmates anyway.
The nine-year old couldn't help but think of Ms. Gadzinski and the story of Brucey McDowell. He knew he was being paranoid; in all likelihood some pervert had snatched little Brucey after he left Ms. Gadzinski's house full of juice and cookies, but Sam couldn't stop thinking about the boy.
If he'd been on speaking terms with Jordan and Travis, he'd ask them more about the investigation into the child's disappearance but since he wasn't, Sam kept his thoughts to himself.
Once the bell rang to signal the end of the school day, Sam hurried out of the classroom and down the hall to where John waited in the parking lot, behind the wheel of the Impala.
The eldest Winchester looked surprised to see the nine-year old out of school first but said nothing. Sam felt a sudden pang of worry- maybe John had changed his mind about going out- but then Dean swung open the front passenger's side door and dropped down onto the seat.
John gave his boys a small smile before turning on the engine and backing out of the parking spot.
"Let's get something to eat before we head out," he told his sons and both boys agreed.
W
It was already dark by the time the Impala pulled into the parking spot in front of the Winchesters' motel room. The small family could see Moms and Dads with very young children making their way back home as those with older kids were just starting to emerge from their houses.
"Can we go now, Dad? Please?" Dean asked as they exited the car and after a quick glance around the parking lot, John agreed.
"Might as well get this over with," Sam heard his father mutter and frowned.
John unlocked the door and the boys rushed inside- Dean out of excitement, Sam because he was afraid their father would call the whole evening off- and put their costumes on over their clothes to keep warm in the chilly night air.
"Ready?" the hunter asked barely five minutes later and both boys nodded.
With his rather flimsy Power Ranger mask on, Sam only had a small field of vision thanks to the eyeholes but he didn't care. He knew Dean wouldn't let him trip over some unseen obstacle. Gripping the handle of his plastic Jack-O-Lantern bucket, the nine-year old finally began to feel the excitement he'd been missing when he stepped outside and heard kids laughing and shouting in the distance.
"C'mon boys," John called and Dean and Sam eagerly followed him, moving away from the motel and towards the residential areas where candy would be distributed.
W
Sam smiled from behind his Power Ranger mask. John allowed them to stop at every house offering sweets and even greeted families who passed them on the sidewalk.
The boys were gathering more candy than they could possibly eat in one night but Dean didn't want to stop; he wanted to make the most of the night.
"Let's go down this street," he said, walking ahead of Sam and John.
"All right, but this is the last one," John replied, "It's getting late."
The hunter was right; it was well past the time when most people stopped answering the door when they heard knocking or the doorbell and it was growing nearly frigid.
Sam followed behind his brother and turned down the street after Dean did… then stopped in his tracks.
From the corner of his eye, and with no hindrance of the mask, the nine-year old could clearly see the hulking structure of the old school for the mentally and physically disabled on the left side of the street. They were heading down the street Ms. Gadzinski lived.
"C'mon Sam," John called and the boy started moving, realizing he was about three houses down from his father and sibling.
"What's wrong?" Dean asked, turning his head to ask the question but kept walking.
"I'm tired," Sam lied, making sure to whine as he did so.
Dean sighed, "Dad said this would be the last street."
Sam nodded but his brother had already turned away from him. John slowed down until he pace matched his youngest son's.
"We've walked farther than this in the woods hunting werewolves and black dogs," he muttered, almost growling like said monsters, "You can't be tired."
Sam shrugged but said nothing.
"Damn, all the houses are dark," Dean complained and stopped.
"Then lets go," John suggested.
Great idea, Sam thought but then his brother pointed ahead, "There's one there that isn't! Let's go there quick!"
The nine-year old automatically followed his brother, just wanting to get this done and over with before he realized which house Dean was heading towards.
"Um… I'll stay here," Sam told his sibling and stopped on the sidewalk just in front of Ms. Gadzinski's house.
"No way! C'mon!" Dean grabbed the nine-year old's arm and began to pull him along the pathway that led to the front porch.
Sam swallowed thickly and told himself that it would be okay. He was wearing a mask. There was no way the old woman would recognize him, not when his face was covered, not when it was dark.
He stepped up onto the wooden porch, half expecting to see a fluorescent orange Frisbee leaning against the railings but there was nothing but a few dried leaves. The slimy goo from the eggs he had thrown the day before was gone, leaving nothing to indicate the house had been vandalized at all.
Dean pressed the doorbell and stepped from foot to foot impatiently.
The door creaked open and there stood Ms. Gadzinski. Now that Sam was closer, he could see she was very thin, almost emaciated-looking, with bright blue eyes in sunken sockets, a thin, lipless mouth and wiry grey hair. She was wearing an old flower-patterned dress that had a washed-out look and an off-white apron.
"What cute dzieci," she cooed in a croaky voice.
Dean held out his bucket, "Trick-Or-Treat."
"Let me see what cukierki I have," Ms. Gadzinski cooed and reached beside the open door to pull out a large bowl of candies and chocolates.
The elderly woman drew out a fistful of the sweets from the bowl and dropped them into Dean's bucket.
"Thanks," the thirteen-year old responded, recalling that manners would be appreciated in this situation and nudged his brother forward.
A trickle of sweat slid down from Sam's forehead, down the bridge of his nose, to rest against his upper lip. He held out his bucket out stiffly, telling himself that there was no way the old woman would know who he was with his mask on.
"Trick-Or-Treat," he squeaked.
Ms. Gadzinski's gaze met the boy's and Sam felt certain that she knew who he was.
Then she smiled and murmured something to him in Polish while putting a handful of candy into his bucket.
As soon as he had the candy, Sam turned and hurried down the pathway feeling as though the old woman's blue eyes were attempting to bore holes into his back.
"Sammy, slow down!" Dean called and Sam stopped.
"What's wrong?" the thirteen-year old asked and Sam shrugged, "Dad wants to get back to the motel room, right?"
Dean nodded and followed his sibling the rest of the way down the path and towards where John stood on the sidewalk, waiting.
"Come on, you two," the hunter grumbled and began stalking down the street in the direction of the motel.
W
The further away from Ms. Gadzinski's house they walked, the calmer Sam felt.
She had no idea who he was. There was no possible way she knew he was the one who'd thrown eggs at her door.
Once they reached the motel room, Sam drew his mask up so that the inside rested against his hair and grinned. All in all it had been a great night; ne of the best thus far in his short life.
"Can we watch TV?" Dean asked as he pulled his own mask off and tossed it on the floor.
John shrugged and grabbed the television remote, handing it over to Dean.
The thirteen-year old sat down on the end of the bed directly across from the television set and pressed the ON button on the remote. Sam perched beside him as he searched the channels, looking for a scary movie.
As he held the remote in one hand, Dean dug in his bucket for candy, dexterously ripping the paper or cellophane from a bonbon single-handedly and popping them into his mouth.
Sam's gaze was drawn to the television as well and he began eating his loot without looking, slipping bite-sized chocolate bars and gummy worms into his mouth robotically.
SPN
Dean almost didn't realize anything was wrong; he was so intent on finding something to watch.
Then he heard his brother gasp and Sam's bucket of candies fell to the floor, spilling out over the carpet.
The thirteen-year old's gaze instantly pinned his brother and Dean knew something was horribly wrong.
Sam's eyes were wide and bulging, his face was bright red and his hands had moved up to his throat where they scrabbled uselessly, only managing to draw thin scratches down his neck.
"Sammy!" Dean cried, terrified his brother was choking.
About to move into position so that he could perform the Heimlich maneuver, the older boy saw something from the corner of his eye that froze his blood in their veins.
A large, oblong lump was slowly crawling up his brother's throat, not as though it was alive- like some hideously grotesque beetle- but as though the muscles in Sam's esophagus were working to expel whatever the foreign object was.
Dean watched, unable to move, waiting for vomit or something to spew out, when Sam's mouth was wrenched open with so much force he could hear the tendons in his brother's jaw creak, and a white egg the side of a chicken's fell onto the floor and cracked open.
To Dean's growing horror, the egg did not contain the normal bright yolk or sticky viscous fluid surrounding it, no, the egg broke open to reveal dark blood and a pink, quivering piece of unknown tissue.
The thirteen-year old's gaze left the grotesque egg and went back to his brother.
"Dad," Dean spoke, his voice surprisingly quiet but John heard. He seemed to have been just as stunned by his eldest son, having been alerted to the sounds of choking, but now he leapt into action.
Dropping to his knees in front of his youngest son's candy, John began pawing through the wrapped sweets, seeming to know exactly what he was looking for.
"Dad," Dean cried as yet another egg-shaped bulge formed low in Sam's throat.
"Check his costume!" John snapped without looking away from the candies on the floor, one hand grabbing for each one while the other tossed away the unoffending treats.
"Dad!" Dean repeated, louder this time because now his brother's eyes had rolled into the back of his head and he was swaying where he sat.
"The costume, Dean!" John shouted and the younger boy did as he was asked, pulling Sam's mask off his head and tossing it aside before patting his sibling down as though he were a security guard for airport security.
"There's nothing here!" Dean told their father, forcing himself to look away as the second egg fell onto the floor, no doubt disgorging contents as equally disturbing as the first.
"Damn it," John snarled, "Where is it?"
Dean, gripping his brother's upper arm to keep him from pitching over the side of the bed, began to feel nauseous.
"You have to find it!" he shouted at John, his fear turning his stomach sour, the candies he had already eaten leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
For a moment there seemed to be no end to the nightmare as a third egg began to travel up Sam's throat, then John sat back on his heels, a gumball-sized candy wrapped a bit of leather, pinched between thumb and forefinger. With his free hand, the eldest Winchester fished for his lighter in the pocket of his jeans.
From his position on the bed, Sam gave a weak groan and would have slumped to the floor had Dean not been holding him up. The older boy lay Sam down on his side and turned his frantic gaze back to their father just as John found his lighter and brought it up to the tiny hex bag.
He didn't seem to care about scorching his fingers; John held the hex bag and lit it on fire, only dropping it once he could see it had caught. The bag landed on the carpet and ate a hole through it the size of a cigarette burn.
The bag burned quickly, leaving only a pungent, rotten-meat and burn hair smell in the room.
"Sammy? Sammy, can you hear me?" Dean asked and shook his brother's shoulder lightly.
His sibling's eyes were closed now and although his face was still red, the colour was receding.
"Is he all right, Dean?" John asked from the end of the bed.
"I think so," the thirteen-year old told him and reached out to brush Sam's bangs away from his brow.
Sam groaned weakly and his eyes opened halfway.
"It's okay Sammy," Dean murmured comfortingly and managed a smile.
While his son comforted his brother, John collected all the candy- including Dean's- and broken eggs into the room's garbage pail and left the room, unknown to his sons, to throw everything into the dumpster behind their room.
W
The next morning Sam woke up as though nothing had happened. John, having let the boy rest the night before, wanted to know if he could think of anyone he'd met who might want to hurt him.
Sam, wide-eyed and innocent looking, told John that he didn't know anyone who would want to hurt him. He, of course knew exactly who had put that hex bag in his bucket of candy but in some weird way didn't feel right in telling. It was his fault in the firs place. He shouldn't have been throwing eggs at her house.
Dean, trying to lighten the mood as they packed their meager belongings into the trunk of the Impala asked, "So can we go out for Halloween next year?"
If looks could kill, the thirteen-year old would have been a ashy smudge on the pavement as both Sam and John glared at him before climbing into the car.
Author's Note:
I do not speak Polish so I relied on Google Translate to allow Ms. Gadzinski to speak in her native language. I know I did not transcribe the words perfectly; there were a few accents on some of the letters I could not duplicate on my computer. I apologize to anyone who does speak Polish for butchering the language. When threatening Sam, Ms. Gadzinski was meant to say, first in English "Get away, […]" and then in Polish "[…] You little bastard. I'll kill you!" When the Winchesters visit her while Trick-Or-Treating, Ms. Gadzinski uses more Polish words, such as dzieci means 'children' and cukierki means 'candies' in Polish.
The consignment store the Winchesters visit for Halloween costumes, called Value Village, is a chain of stores common in Canada. I am not sure if they are located anywhere else. The Value Village stores always sell new and used costumes, as well as props and decorations for Halloween.