Author's Note:

Thanks to Bestest Mate for the title! We bandied this about for ages, and then she came out with this one. Aceness!

Written for the 2008 Hallowe'en Challenge at SPNVille dot net.

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"I hate Hallowe'en."

Dean's muttered admission didn't so much break the silence as pick it up and hurl it from a six storey window.

The Impala had been deathly quiet, taking the chance of a rest firmly by the tyre treads and enjoying her alert standby. Nothing had dared stir within the classic since the two boys had parked and sat, waiting.

"Hmm-mm," Sam agreed. Dean recognised a pre-occupied brush-off when he heard one and looked over at his younger brother.

He was staring fixedly at his Palm Treo, the stylus in his right hand, poised to tap away. He had been that way for a few minutes.

"Whatcha doin'?" Dean asked gamely.

Sam sucked in a deep breath, as if loathe to yawn. He didn't look up. "Crossword," he mumbled.

Dean blinked in surprise, let the notion of struggling over meanings and spellings of words roll round his head for a long few seconds, then dismissed it as completely pointless if no girl were involved.

"Oh." He looked back out the windscreen, and again, silence reigned like it was going out of style. Eventually he sniffed and looked over. "Need any help?"

"From you? Think I'll pass," Sam muttered, but he smiled slightly.

Dean made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. "Ouch Sammy; that hurts. I could help you. I am older than you."

"Yeah, cos you went to college too, right?" he pointed out sarcastically.

Dean shifted in the driver's seat, turning his head left to stare out of the side window. Sam looked over at his brother slowly, feeling slightly guilty. "Ok then - I can't get this one. Ready?" he offered.

"Ready," Dean nodded, oddly pleased as he turned and looked at Sam.

"One of three squares. Four letters."

"Dick," Dean tutted dismissively.

"Dean! This is really hard, actually!" Sam protested. But Dean lifted a hand and waved it at him quickly.

"No - 'Dick'. One of three squares - Tom, Dick and Harry. Right? Am I right?" he asked eagerly.

Sam just stared at him. "Oh," he managed in a small voice. He looked back at the crossword on the screen, tapping in the letters.

Dean smiled. "See? I ain't completely useless."

The night sky, cool and crisp, sent tiny wispy clouds shifting overhead as the boys lapsed into silence. Dean stretched, sliding down in the seat and finding it a very comfortable time for a nap when Sam tutted harshly.

"It's not 'Dick'," he huffed. "Doesn't fit now."

"Well shit, Sam. I don't know," Dean sighed. He glanced at his brother's look of absolute concentration. "Only you would do a crossword on one of those things."

"What things?"

"One of them PDI things," Dean said, gesturing to his Palm Treo with his chin.

"PDA," Sam corrected.

"Whatever, man. That ain't what they were invented for."

"Says the man who can't even get the name right," Sam grinned. Dean looked at him but Sam interrupted quickly. "If you say they're for porn, I'll get out of this car right now and wait for this spirit in the darkness by myself."

Dean smiled at him, in exactly the same way he had the night Sam had turned fourteen and admitted to his older brother that he'd completely fallen in love with his maths tutor.

Because of her large scientific calculator.

"Whatever, man," Dean grinned, turning to look away again. Then he thought about it. "What does PDA stand for, anyway?"

"You don't know?" Sam taunted. He was determined to get something out of this war of self-respect, and he knew he could vanquish anyone when it came to his favourite toys.

"Let me think," Dean mused, propping his elbow on the window block and running his hand over his lip slowly. He sniffed, thinking. "Pretty Damn Annoying?" he offered, looking at Sam.

"Nah - Pretty Damn Awesome," he grinned.

Dean shook his head. "Purple Dress Attraction."

"Perfectly Demonic Area," Sam said, wrankled that Dean had already fallen back on natural instinct.

Dean chuckled abruptly. "People Doing Adultery."

"Pansy Demon's Auntie."

"Post-Death Ally." Dean snapped his fingers, pointing at Sam. "I like that one."

"How about 'Pathetic Dumb-Ass'?" Sam said with a keen frankness that Dean took like a slap to his outstretched hand.

"Well thanks," he grumped, turning to direct his attention out of the window. "I wus just sayin'."

Sam looked at him for a long moment, then down at the Treo. His eyebrows decided they were lonely and squeezed together in the middle, hanging on to each other for dear life. His lip knew exactly what it had to do; it stuck out solemnly, communicating to his eyes that it was time they sagged, puppy-dog style, and they'd better make the most of it or so help it, his lip would go up there and kick some ocular ass.

Aware that his face was channelling the emotions on which he was trying to keep a heavy lid, Sam took a deep breath before he knew what he was about. Too late he remembered what came next, too late he tried desperately to control his respiratory system. It did no good; he huffed.

Dean didn't even flinch, which was lucky since Sam was still trying to exorcise the feelings of guilt and regret from his expression. He managed it, then looked over at his older brother steadily.

A slow smile stole over his face and he reached over, putting out a finger and jabbing it hard into Dean's arm.

Dean tutted and looked round at him, then at his brother's finger an inch from his jacket sleeve.

"Whut?" he asked irritably. Sam simply smiled, pushing into him again. "Sam, whut?"

"This," he said, as if it were obvious, pressing again.

"Do I look like a friggin' Tickle-Me Elmo to you?" Dean demanded. "Quit it!"

"No - look," he tried again, jabbing at him.

Dean just stared at him as if everything Sam knew about the universe were a lie, and he was in fact the proud bearer of two heads. With green skin.

Sam sighed in defeat. "Poke Dean's Arm!" he grinned.

Dean blinked, looked down at Sam's finger buried in the black material of his jacket, then back up at him.

Whut's that word? he asked himself silently. Like… off his meds, out of his gourd, looking for brain cells in all the wrong places, Smartifically Challenged, gangly--. Got it.

"Freak," he managed, with just the right amount of accusation and confidence to make Sam draw his hand back silently.

"Yeah - you have a freak for a brother," he managed, his voice quiet with hurt.

There was a vacuum of sound while Dean studied his bruised expression. "Makes two of us then, huh?" he allowed gruffly.

Sam looked up but Dean was looking out of his side window. He eyed the disused cart of pumpkins not twenty feet from the car.

Friggin' pumpkins, he snorted. "Speaking of freaks, is this last one ever gonna turn up tonight?" he continued with distinct irritation, and Sam straightened in his seat.

"Hope so. Hey… It was definitely four spirits, right?"

"Definitely."

"That's what you said when I asked if it was three," Sam pointed out.

"And then we checked the Curse Box which someone opened, and there were four empty vessels in there. So yeah, Curious George, that makes it four." He managed to stop himself from scowling at his younger sibling. He decided it would be flogging a horse not only dead but dragged back from The Great Beyond to blame him again.

"What bothers me is… why were they in the Curse Box to begin with?" Sam asked. "I mean, we got three of them already - and they weren't exactly bad-ass, just ancient."

"Yeah," Dean mused, scratching his head vaguely in thought. "Well hey, they were old. Maybe Dad couldn't find any bones to salt 'n burn."

"Yeah," Sam said uneasily. "At least we know these rounds work," he added quietly.

"Yeah, how about that?" Dean said, pleased. "Salt rounds with Tabasco and chilli pepper leaves mixed in? Who'd have thought Condiment Bombs would save the day?"

Sam's eyes jumped on the number ten bus in an effort to get to the white sandy beaches just a short ride away. Unbeknownst to them, however, the route had changed drastically since their last ride: the number ten was now a circular, and Sam's eyes ended up spinning round the block, albeit at top speed, only to end up exactly where they had started.

The resulting 360 journey his eyes took, though thrilling for them personally, went completely unnoticed by Dean. Sam's own consciousness slapped his eyes for trying to hog the limelight, and duly shone it back on his brain with haste, lest Sam's logic be missed.

"It only works on All Hallows' Eve," he pointed out. "And I think it's less about the condiments and more about the purified church salt."

"Whatever, dude," Dean said easily. "I just want this joker to hurry up and get here. This is not how I'd like to spend Hallowe'en."

"How would you like to spend Hallowe'en?" Sam asked curiously. "We never talk about it."

"Oooh, let me see now," Dean breathed. "Well first of all - I'd burn all the pumpkins. I friggin' hate pumpkins," he grimaced. It turned onto a crafty smile slowly. "And then… Angelina Jolie," he nodded. Then stopped abruptly, frowning. "Naw - too thin. Try an' jump that and I'd burst something. No… that girl offa 'Reaper'."

"You watch 'Reaper'?" Sam chuckled. "I thought you said it was ripped-off shit?"

"Well yeah, it's like totally derivative of several thousand other shows - but I kinda like the Devil dude. He's cool," he nodded.

Sam laughed out loud, and Dean grinned at him, glad to watch him so happy.

"Meal!" Dean said suddenly. "The crosswor--"

There was a sudden thump and they snapped round to look out of the windscreen.

"That's the spirit?" Sam whispered.

"No Sam, it's the mailman!" Dean snapped in an irritated whisper. He stretched behind him, grasping the shotgun and lifting it to his lap. He cracked it open and checked the loaded rounds before slamming it shut.

Sam put his hand down to the passenger footwell and located his shotgun. He rested it on his knee, also checking rounds.

"You good?" Dean whispered.

"You go left," Sam breathed.

They reached for the door handles.

There was an almighty smack from the roof, and both boys jumped about six inches from their seats.

"Son of a bitch is beating up ma car!" Dean cried. Sam opened his mouth but Dean was already out the door.

Sam tugged at his door handle and flew out, priming the shotgun as he turned and aimed it at the roof of the Impala.

He paused as he took in the sight of the spirit standing on the roof as if he owned it.

A pale, spectral blue light flickered and waved around it in some ethereal breeze that appeared to affect only the spirit's plane of existence. On what had once been a man was decidedly ancient clothing, leather hand-made boots of suede with chunky lacing reaching his knees. Baggy dull red trousers sagged around him, a wide shined belt holding them up over his bright white, frilled shirt. The waistcoat he had on over the top was brushed suede in a rather tasteful russet colour, his long white shirt sleeves billowing slightly in the pseudo breeze, looking rather dashing and well-kept.

The right hand flicked behind its back and whipped out a tall stick. It slapped it into the roof of the Impala. A very impressive four foot blade whisked out, ready for business. As the highly efficient cutting tool gleamed in the moonlight, both boys took very steady steps back from the car.

"He's got a scythe! The dude's got a scythe! Who has a scythe, anyway?" Dean protested.

The spirit turned his head, looking over at Dean with a commanding air neither Winchester took to.

"Perforce be thy mistress, sir - who be'ist thou, who derides my choice with tongue so sharp?" he countered.

Dean looked at him - just looked. Then his face hardened, his shotgun ready. "Who the hell are you?"

"I, errant knave, am the very last thing you should'st see on this plane of misery and woe. Wilst thou lay down thine arms and forego with courage? Or is't to be a fearsome struggle to repude the name of Tartarus?" he grinned, tapping the roof of the car again.

"Quit banging at ma car!" Dean protested.

"This is mine own farm!" the male spirit argued, then looked at Sam. "You are but trespassing, and I shall have thine heads!"

"This isn't your farm," Sam said quickly. "This was never your farm."

The spirit looked around slowly. "You are cocksure for a man of tender years," he snapped.

"You're a little out of your time. What was the year, when you remember it?"

"Fifteen hundred and ninety-eight, in the year of our Lord," he said proudly. "Whyfore, on my ever-wearying patience, dost thou question me so?"

"Because that was over four hundred years ago," Sam supplied neatly. "This farm wasn't here then. In fact, you would have been in England, I'm guessing."

"Why, 'tis plain this be the truth!" The spirit frowned suddenly, looking Sam up and down. "Thine own clothes are strange indeed for a farmhand, boy. Tell me, wherefore is't this place? The trees are scarce familiar to mine eyes, the very smell of the air tainted and foreign."

"You're in Essex County, Massachusetts," Dean put in from the other side of the car.

"This is not Essex!" he scoffed. "Do not try to trick me with foul word play, thou venomed hell-hated pignut!"

Dean blinked. "Was that an insult?"

"Yeah!" Sam hid a grin, lifting the shotgun. "Look, sir, you can't be here. We're here to stop you."

"Ah! So, thine base hag-born rogue speaks a challenge at last! Then sir, to your weapon! I shall liberate you both from this mortal coil and enjoy the show!" he cried jubilantly.

Dean didn't think. He squeezed the trigger on the shotgun.

The spirit folded to one side as gracefully as an underwater swimmer. Dean growled something and took aim again.

But the man leapt from the car. He landed with a strangely silent vibration that tipped both boys from their feet. He stood over Dean and raised the long scythe. Sat in the grass, Dean scrabbled to get his shotgun back into both hands and lift it. The spirit swung the handle of the wooden staff, connecting with the weapon and sending it flying across the ground.

The spirit laughed. "Now, oh barbarous beef-witted canker-blossom, you are filleted!"

Dean made a desperate attempt to roll toward the Impala. If I can get underneath--

The man cackled in evil amusement, slamming a leather boot down to trap Dean on his back. He leaned back to deliver the death slice.

Until his head simply slid off backwards. There was a thump and a rustle in the grass.

"Curses!" came a muffled shout.

Dean froze, just staring up at the headless body with the scythe still held high. Sam, on his hands and knees, appeared round the boot of the car and gasped.

"What did you--" he began.

"I didn't do anything!" Dean protested, still on his back. "His head just kinda - fell off."

"On your honours, sirs, you will pray give me leave to retrieve what is mine," the muffled voice continued.

Sam and Dean just watched, eyes wide, as the scythe came down slowly and was held casually in the right hand. The body backed away from Dean and crouched. The left hand went out to the grass. It searched around for a moment.

"Left a bit," Sam said helpfully.

"Much obliged," came the smothered response. The hand fell against the brown wavy hair and simply grasped it. It lifted it out of the grass and popped it back on the neck neatly. The man turned and looked at them apologetically.

"Does it, ah… do that a lot?" Dean asked innocently, sitting up.

"Quite. It happened there was a slight altercation betwixt myself and a whore-begotten thief in the Boar's Head tavern in Eastcheap. Conflicted over which end of the knife should'st be used against whose neck, were we. To mine ever-lasting detriment, seemingly I had the wrong of it," he said sadly. "Rancorous flap-mouthed miscreant," he tutted.

"Woah," Dean muttered, nodding appreciatively. He looked at Sam. "He's got like a whole new level of insulting goin' on."

"Gun," Sam said pointedly.

Dean looked over at the shotgun in the grass. He turned and hastily began crawling to it on his hands and knees.

Sam straightened and lifted his shotgun, aiming. The man lifted his scythe over Dean as Sam let off a shot.

The spirit gasped and moved with unnerving speed. It slipped to one side and missed the spread of holy salt completely.

"Prepare your souls!" he shouted, enraged.

Dean had reached his shotgun. He snatched it up and whirled around on his back in the grass, aiming.

Sam and Dean fired in perfect unison.

The condiment concoctions flew out and peppered the spirit with a fine deluge. The man screamed, staggering back. He dropped the scythe. It fell into the grass and melted away. He stumbled back, clutching his throat. Not in agony, but to keep his head on.

He failed and it rolled off behind him.

He fell heavily, landing square on the derelict cart loaded with pumpkins. The empty end was rammed down forcibly. The loaded end sprang up.

Close to thirty pumpkins of varying sizes and stages of decomposition flew up into the air.

The spirit screamed as he burst into flames. "Perfidious knotty-pated botch!"

"Sonnuvabitch!" Dean cried in surprise, noticing the pumpkins were starting to fall back down to Earth. More specifically, the Winchesters' little patch of grass.

They hammered down in exactly the same way that feathers do not. The sounds of splitting, shattering fruit slamming into the Impala, the grass, and the two boys sounded loud to their ears.

Covered in rotten pumpkin guts and seeds, Sam and Dean opened slimy, stinging eyes to look around.

The spirit was gone, only a slight burn mark in the grass proving he was ever there.

Sam sighed gratefully, lounging back in the grass.

Dean blew out a growl through his nose.

"I hate Hallowe'en."

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THE END

Happy Hallowe'en, everyone!