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“C’mon man why don’t you like Halloween?” Dean drums his fingers on the steering wheel. The leather has gotten a bit worn down—maybe he should think of replacing it. Later though—after this case. This house isn’t gonna watch itself. He wishes he could get out of the car and go trick-or-treating though. Back like when he was, hell, probably five or something. Wandering around the streets holding onto someone’s hand—Mom or Dad’s hand, he can’t remember. It was cold though—frigid. Puff-jacket shoved on over his batman costume. Dean’s mouth flickers up at the memory—damn, that costume was cool. It had the mask and the fake muscles and everything. The real deal. He got a whole pillow-case full of candy that night. Well, he doesn’t remember really, but he remembers his arms dying. Like falling-off-his-shoulders dying, breath huffing into the air in a cloud with a sort of stubborn persistence. Past that it’s all dark and blank in his mind—but the little scrap of memory comes full of all that warm and soft nostalgia that wraps around him like a fleece blanket.
“Because that is not what a vampire looks like,” Sam’s voice cuts in. Torn and razor-sharp around the edge like hard shrapnel. “—and that is not what a werewolf is like and that isn’t what a witch looks like. And that isn’t what angels are like and that—and that is not what the devil—” Sam cuts himself off, looking away with a scoff of frustration, words dying suddenly in his throat. Dean glances over to where he was pointing: a group of chicks clustered together, giggling with their cutesy group fit.
Little sparkled and feathered angel wings that look like a craft store threw up on cardboard perched on one’s back; complete with a sparkling headband connected to a wire halo and white clothes. Two dimensional and kinda pathetic effort-wise, if Dean says so himself. There’s no fun in costumes like that. Then one of the other girls with a plain red shirt and booty-shorts, twirling a tiny pitchfork with those fugly little demon-horn headbands. Dean huffs a sigh, “you’re perfectly right Sam, this is…horrible.” Sam glances over at Dean, his eyes blinking in a sort of soft confusion—those thrice-damned puppy-dog eyes. “Horribly cheesy. Like c’mon you couldn’t have put more effort—”
“Nevermind, just forget I said anything.”
“Okay no. Look. I know you don’t like it. Hell, I don't love it either. And I know it pisses you off. But you can’t stop it so might as well enjoy it. Besides, free candy.” Dean folds back a few layers of jackets, searching through each of their pockets. Knife, lock pick, second knife, second lock pick, phone, phone, third knife, gun ammo— there. Dean quickly picks the wrapper off the Snickers bar, shoving half into his mouth. “ Mmmf, that’s the stuff—Snickers. Peanuts, chocolate, a bit of that…what is that? Nougat?” Dean tries to mumble through the globbed mess sticking to his gums, teeth, roof of his mouth—everything. “What the hell even is nougat?”
“Okay—no but Dean, this is like if once a year everyone dressed up as Ghostface in Woodsboro to piss off Sidney Prescott.”
“Aha!” Dean points at Sam with the rest of the candybar. “I knew you were a Scream fan.”
“Shut up. You get my point.” Sam isn’t looking at anything now. Not even surveilling the house—just fidgeting with a coin he found in his pocket. Pretty shiny still for a coin. Twirling the penny over and over, weirdly mesmerized by the light glinting off the copper— Lincoln’s face flashing up at Sam every other turn. Eyes darting now and then to the corners to glance at Dean.
“So…what?” Dean starts slowly, “you think Lucifer is gonna just…jump out at you from a bunch of freak-costumed kids?” Dean wants Sam to brush the question off. Tell Dean he’s delusional or being ridiculous—insisting that he isn’t a coward or something like that. Dean wants Sam to be okay. He wants to—hell, he doesn’t know what he wants. Dean wants everything for Sam, he’ll put it that way. Everything and then a little extra for all the shit the kid has gone through.
But instead Sam pauses, then nods curtly, looking up quickly, lips fluttering open. He’s confused. Dean can tell. Some sort of hurried doubt where his little brother can’t quite force the words out of his mouth fast enough to match that big brain of his. Dean has seen it before. He has seen it plenty of times—when Sam is scared. “I—I’m always worried about that, Dean.” voice feather-soft now. Dean has to concentrate to try to pick up on the words. “I’m always scared that he’s just…” Sam pushes a rough shrug, faking nonchalance. The penny spins faster and faster, catching more light and bouncing it right back off again. “I dunno.”
Dean feels sick staring at the coin turn, wrenching his gaze away quickly. He’s pretty sure there’s nothing to say. Hell, what can you even say in a situation like this? Hey sorry the Devil is haunting you kid. Getting tortured by him for years sounds pretty rough. Anyways, want some nougat? Something tells Dean it was different than hell—very different. But Sam won’t ever talk about it, and Dean knows not to push. He knows plenty.
Nights when Dean’s jerked awake to screaming, Sam clawing at himself until scarlet blood clogs beneath his fingernails. The way Sam flinches in terror whenever someone snaps their fingers. The way Sam has picked up weird habits like checking all his fingernails and feeling his mouth to touch every tooth individually; or avoiding meat and touch and a thousand things that just aren’t Sam. Sam came back from the Cage soulless. And then he came back changed.
Dean hates saying it. He hates it with every fiber of his being. He lies about it to himself, he ignores it. But Sam came back broken.
Slowly it’s gotten better. Little victories here and there. Like when Sam could finally take actual showers instead of just passing a soaking wet cloth over his skin and scrubbing down on dry floor. But it will never be the same; because Dean knows Hell changes a person. So no one—not even his strong and crazy baby brother Sammy—can come out from being the Devil’s chew-toy unscatched. Unchanged. Normal.
But it still hurts. Hurts in the way Sam can’t physically pluck up the courage to talk about the Devil unless he gets momentum and forces three words out of his mouth before shutting down again, letting others take the lead.
So when Dean looks up and sees the chicks again, he doesn’t see a group of girls with cheap, but sexy, costumes. All he sees are oblivious stupid kids who are upsetting Sam.
“Alright, here. Take the rest of this, chocolate fixes everything.” Dean grunts, handing Sam the rest of the Snickers bar. Sam blinks from his daze, glancing up before accepting the chocolate slowly. He sniffs at the bar—like a weirdo, Dean decides—before taking a few bites, chewing quietly. “There we go.” Dean cranks up the Zeppelin' rumbling as background static.
Sam begins to ease out of his trance, nodding along subtly to the beat—penny chucked onto the dashboard, looking more interested in the Snickers now. Dean shifts his weight a bit as an incoming before reaching over, ruffling Sam’s hair until it shakes from it’s tucked spot behind the ears and scatters across Sam’s face. “Hey—what was that for?”
“If you don’t like it then you should cut it.” Dean states matter-of-factly, burying his hand in the locks again and giving it another vigorous shake. His hand wants to linger a sec’, feel Sam’s hair and skull beneath his hand. Physical and tangible like: yes I can feel this. Yes he’s here. My little brother is here. And safe, for now. I will keep him safe as long as possible. Dean wants to give another promise. Another oath that Sam won’t be hurt under his watch, but Dean can’t force the lie out this time. He’s lied too much, broken his own promises. So instead he settles with keeping his hand there, reminding himself that Sam’s okay right now.
“Jerk.”
“Okay, Loreal. Whatever you say.” Dean withdraws his hand reluctantly, careful not to catch any fly-away strands between his fingers. Sam blinks up at Dean, face twitched in some sort of taken-aback anticipation.
“What?”
“Jerk.”
Dean breathes a chuckle, a grin slashing across his face.
“Bitch.”