Disclaimer: Still own nothing.

Author's Note: It's Halloween! No, no, really it is.

The tiny foot stomping was one thing. The bitterly contorted, seemingly stern face, another all together. But when, "I'm a princess!" shoots out of her mouth, filled with more bitter indignation than any four-year-old should rightly possess, he begins to think he may have lost the battle.

Dean cringes through his fake and placating smile, ears ringing from a screech nearly the same deafening decibel as Michael's had been at her age. "Yeah," he manages, kneeling down to her level. "But wouldn't you like to be a pumpkin instead?"

Her eyes go wide, face red, and he has just enough time to process the fact that she's about to squeal again when his little girl lets out a "No!" that seems to almost shake the house. If he weren't now completely deaf, he might actually see this as funny, sweet little pink princess, complete with tutu and tiara, wailing like a banshee in front of him.

Sam certainly seems to find it amusing, looming in the doorway and stifling his laughter with the back of his gigantic hand. "What?" Dean snipes at him.

He sighs, walking over and leaning down to scoop up his namesake. "She's obviously a princess, Dean," he says, arranging the frilly tutu around her. "Let her be a princess."

"Did I ask you?"

Sam bounces his niece in his arms, delights in her high pitched giggles before responding simply with, "No, you asked her. And she told you."

Dean's this close to doing or saying something he really shouldn't do or say in front of his kid – Mister Happy-Go-Lucky over there getting all up in his business – when Rachel comes bounding in with a smile just as wide and sincere as her father's. "Ready Freddie?" she asks, a bit too much enthusiasm for Dean's liking.

"My name's not Freddie," Samantha giggles as Sam hands her over to her cousin.

"Oops," she responds, "My bad." She sets her down carefully and reaches for her hand, saying in a mock gentile voice, "Shall we, Princess Samantha?"

Dean huffs a laugh and backhands his brother on the shoulder. "Dude," he says when Sam glares his way, "she asked you a question."

"Ha ha," he deadpans. "Hilarious as always."

"Anyway," Rachel draws out, "We're leaving."

Dean gives her the look, the patented I'm trusting you with precious cargo, don't screw up look that he'd been giving her for the past four years since she started babysitting. "One hour," he says firmly. "And only this neighborhood. And don't let her eat any of the candy 'til I get a chance to look it over."

"Yeah," she says, struggling to hold onto the excitable little girl's hand, "I hear this year the PTA's plotting to inject all the candy with heroin to keep kids quiet in school." Dean only glares. Rachel only smiles. And Samantha only pulls on her cousin harder until they're finally out the front door.

"Dude," Sam says, head shaking with both amusement and seeming disappointment. "A pumpkin? Again?"

He waves a dismissive hand in his brother's face as he heads for the kitchen, pulls out a beer – because beer's always better when it's free, and a good ten times better when you know it's your brother who's paying for it. "Shuddup," he mumbles, leaning into the counter.

"I mean, when she was a baby it was cute. But…"

"I swear to God, Sam, if you say she's not a baby anymore I'm gonna hit you in the face," he claims, taking a long pull on his bottle.

Sam nods solemnly, "Yeah, I know," rolling off his tongue like an airy lament.

"She's still my pumpkin," he says with an audible pout that makes his brother laugh. "What?" he shoots, newfound smile perking his lips. "She is."

"Believe me," Sam says, "I know."

They're silent for a moment – that odd, comfortable silence that only the two of them together ever seem to share – as Dean moves over to take a seat across from Sam at the candy-covered table. He picks up a fun sized Snickers, unwraps it and shoves in his mouth before saying through chocolate, peanut, caramel, nougat bliss, "Where's Maya?"

Sam looks up, gives a disgusted roll of the eyes when he notices his brother reach for another candy bar. "Her soccer team put together a haunted house."

"Yeah," he tries with an even fuller mouth. "Cool."

He nods. "She's the severed head on a plate."

"You must be so proud," he says after a giant, gulping swallow.

"I am," he grins, moving to dig through the bowl of candy closest to him. He comes up with a handful of tiny bags of M&M's, slides them across the table at his brother.

"Sweet."

"Sarah'd never forget about the biggest kid." He steals a swig of Dean's beer, leans back and asks, "What about the boys? I thought you were bringing them over?"

"Ava's gonna later. It's not cool to go out this early, you know. That shit's for babies."

"Nice," Sam comments with a disapproving wag of the head. He snatches up a Pixie Stick and empties the whole thing into his mouth, face contorting in a sour expression as he swallows the flavored sugar down. And he snatches up another. "Remember when Halloween was fun?"

Dean sniggers to himself. "You mean like when I made you watch Nightmare on Elm Street and then hid under the bed making scratching noises?"

"No," he says through slanted eyes, "you ass."

"Oh, then, you mean like the time we watched Children of the Corn and then drove through Nebraska, and you puked the whole way."

"I had too much candy," he retorts bitterly, emptying another Pixie Stick.

"Uh huh, suspicious how the candy only seemed to affect you when we came upon the cornfields."

"It was Nebraska, Dean. The entire state was a cornfield."

"Okay, so are you talking about the time we had a werewolf marathon and you almost shit yourself when the thing jumped through the chick's window in Silver Bullet? Because the scream you let out? Dude, that was freakin' unreal."

Sam glares at him long and hard for a moment, watching as he repeatedly pops M&Ms into his mouth, laughing around the candy coated chocolate. "I was talking about when the girls were young," he says deep and steady. "How could you ever think I was referring to when we were?"

"Aw, come on, Sammy, we had fun," he says, sparing a single M&M to toss at his brother's angst-filled face.

"Dad was always totally on edge, paranoid."

"He usually wasn't even there," Dean corrects, sitting up straight, an unconscious habit whenever their father was brought up.

"Point is, for us, it wasn't like it was for other kids. I mean Dad never let us dress up or go trick-or-treating."

"You always had plenty of candy, Sammy."

"Yeah, because you hoarded your allowance all month to buy us some. We still had to stay cooped up in whatever shitty motel or rent-to-own house we were staying in at the time, constantly checking salt lines, not allowed to answer the door."

"Quit your whining," he says with a whine of his own. "We still had fun. Remember the time I stashed that bright red wig in your underwear drawer? Said a clown must have been going through your drawers?"

Sam's eyes go wide. "I knew that was you!" he nearly screams, both excited and horrified to have his suspicions confirmed after all these years. Because normally if Dean said he didn't do something, he didn't do it. But what were the odds a clown had managed to get past all their charms and salt lines – which should be impossible, them being pure evil and all – only to be so careless as to leave behind his hair?

"Oh, man, I don't think you ever unpacked your skivvies again, did you?" he says through rumbling laughter.

"Would you?" he replies, barely able to keep from cracking a smile himself.

"Would you, what?" they hear suddenly, Sam's face shooting up and Dean's gaze jerking around to see Sarah looming in the doorway.

"Does Sam have an underwear drawer?" he asks her innocently.

She frowns, contemplating the question. "It took me two years to convince him to unpack his delicates," she says slowly. "Why?"

"He was the victim of a clown voyeur," he says, reaching for another handful of candy.

Sarah swoops in and slaps his hand away, piling all the candy back into the bowls. "That explains a lot, actually," she says simply, carrying one of the bowls away, readying it for the trick-or-treaters.

"Seriously," Sam mutters once she's out of earshot, "you're an ass."

Dean reaches across the table, digs out some more M&Ms from the bowl in front of Sam, throwing cautious glances over his shoulder as he does so. "Yeah, I know."

The doorbell rings and the sounds of small children, slurred and misshapen words – trick-tree! – high squeals and giggles, filter into the kitchen. This was the Halloween the boys had never known growing up. This sweet natured day for kids to be kids, for kids to be anything they wanted really, and get rewarded for their cuteness and creativity with candy. The only monsters they thought about were the ones they dressed up as or passed on the street with their parents. The only fears they carried were of cars not seeing them cross the street or crazy old ladies handing out apples with razor blades.

When Rachel was two, they celebrated their first Halloween, marked the day with more than just precaution and fear. Sam was 28, Dean 32. "She was a dog, wasn't she?" Dean asks, suddenly lost in the memory of that first time.

And Sam must know what he's talking about because he nods solemnly, correcting him only slightly by saying, "A puppy."

"Right," he drawls out.

"She's not dressing up tonight." He shifts in his chair. "She's going to some party later, but said she's not dressing up as anything."

"Too old?" he asks, already knowing the answer, the real reason. Because 16 is never too old to play dress up on the one day of the year you're allowed.

"I don't think so," he replies, shaking his head.

"Well, look on the bright side, you still got a head on a plate."

Sam smiles, lets out a soft chuckle. "Oh, man," he starts, clearly reminiscent quality to his voice. "Maya was always about that stuff. Blood and gore."

"I know. Remember how pissed Sarah was when we made her up as a zombie? What was she, four?"

"Something like that. And you can't really blame her. I mean, once you've seen a real one, dressing your kid up as the undead does seem kind of creepy."

"Oh, so she'd never seen a real puppy before dressing Rache like one?"

Sam snickers and shakes his head, raises a brow in that childlike way he has. "At least she didn't turn her into a pumpkin."

Dean shoots him a glare, fires off another M&M at his face that Sam almost manages to catch in hie teeth. He tosses another one, this time closer, and they keep going, aiming, catching, bobbing and weaving and dodging, candy all over the wood floor.

The doorbell rings again and this time they recognize the rambunctious, "Trick-or-Treat!" Sarah squeals in delight, feigning absolute terror, and the boys hear the rhythmic thump-thump-thumps of clodding feet as Michael runs into the kitchen, screams in the same appallingly loud and high-pitched tone, "Boo!"

"Oh, my God," Sam says, hand slapping at his heart in mock shock. Mostly mock shock.

"Did I scare you?" the ten-year-old asks, saccharine sweet quality to his voice.

Sam eyes him up and down, chances a quick glance at his father, takes in the accomplished smirk on his face. "Uh, yeah, buddy. You sure did."

John bounds in the room, lollipop hanging from his mouth and tuxedo tails trailing behind. "You!" he booms at Michael. "Back to your clown car!"

Sam smiles appreciatively. "The Ringmaster?" And John nods.

Michael smiles wide through his frowning face paint, tugs on Dean's arm and pleads, "Come on, Daddy, let's go!"

"In a minute," he says, peeling the boy's hand off and pointing him toward the door. "Go help your mother and Aunt Sarah hand out candy for a few."

"Yeah," Sam seconds, "See if you can scare any of the little kids."

"Okay!" he shouts a little too excitedly, as he takes hold of John and drags him out of the kitchen, giant red fro bouncing on his head as he bounds.

Dean turns back to his brother, coy smile and raised brows showing his satisfaction. "We're heading over to the rich neighborhood," he says in such a way that Sam can't help but laugh. "Wanna come?"

He shakes his head no, says simply, "I think you've got enough of a circus on your hands for one night."

He rises from the table, towering over his normally much larger brother, and points a finger down in his face, stern warning tone issuing out, "Don't eat too much candy. You'll make yourself sick," just like he's cautioned for years.