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“Let me get this straight,” Dean says. He’s rubbing at the tense furrow between his brows with his thumb, eyes closed as if he’s in pain. Castiel, watching, wants to pull Dean’s hand away and replace it with his mouth, kiss away the wrinkles. He has the feeling that Dean would not find this an acceptable course of action in public. “You wanted to go all-out on Halloween decorations this year. And you’re broke as shit. So you decided to reanimate a couple dozen corpses rather than shell out twenty bucks at Party City for some plastic bones.”
“I didn’t mean to,” the girl moans. Her head is in her hands and her short dark hair is a mess, pulled every which way. “I swear to God, I was just trying to raise one—I even picked out an unmarked grave, you know, one of the ones that’s been here for like, two hundred years? So I don’t, like. I dunno, upset the family, I guess? And I was just gonna have it sit by my door and move every once in a while when trick or treaters came by and freak people out, and then the next day, I swear, I was gonna put it back to rest.”
“Lady,” Dean says, “You raised a whole friggin’ cemetery.”
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In which there is the obligatory Halloween (pseudo) case fic.
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