"Here, Dean. Just pull off here. I think I see a Wal-Mart."

The Winchesters had been driving non-stop through the night, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the messy finish of their latest hunt. Dean seemed content to continue on for another couple of hours at least, having recovered both his dignity and his sense of humor just as soon as the last garden gnome had been immolated, but Sam - well, Sam had some lingering issues with the way the hunt had gone, starting with, but not limited to the fact that they had managed to destroy the duffel containing most of his clothing during the fiery finale.

When Dean didn't immediately respond to this request, Sam sighed and tried again. "Dude, seriously. I don't think the Grand Rapids Garden Club has put out an APB on us because we burned down their Commemorative Rose Garden. C'mon, man. Let's stop."

Sam studiously ignored the slight smirk that appeared on his sibling's face, bracing himself for the commentary that was sure to follow.

"Whassamatter, Sammy? I thought ripped jeans were all the rage."

Dean was nothing if not predictable. Sam clenched his jaw, but managed to keep his tone somewhat even as he replied.

"Dean."

"Sam." His brother's tone and inflection were identical to Sam's, which succeeded in finally pushing the younger Winchester over the edge.

Sam calmly reached out his left hand, seized the steering wheel, and yanked it sharply to the right, causing the Impala to veer onto the exit ramp that led to the aforementioned warehouse store.

"Dammit, Sam!" Dean cursed and fought to regain control of the car after Sam released the wheel. "Are you trying to get us killed?!"

"I am TRYING to get some new PANTS, DEAN, OKAY?!"

Dean spared a brief, incredulous glance at his nearly-hyperventilating brother, then turned his attention back to the road, mumbling something about sensitive princesses and keeping your pants on under his breath. Sam ignored Dean while he mumbled, and ignored him again when the elder realized he'd made a joke.

A few moments later the Impala pulled smoothly into an empty space within a large, mostly deserted parking lot, and Dean cut the engine, studying the storefront. After a beat, a puzzled Dean turned to face his brother.

"I thought you said this was a Wal-Mart."

"I said it looked like one. What difference does it make?"

"Well, none, I guess, but what the hell's a 'S-Mart?'"

Sam bit back his automatic response in favor of a more neutral, "Hopefully a mart which sells jeans," and flung open the passenger door with more force than necessary, exiting quickly and cutting off his brother's protest by slamming the door shut.

"And underwear," mumbled Dean, scrambling after his brother. He grabbed his gun out of the glove compartment--"never shop after 2 a.m. without one" being an unofficial Winchester motto--and a hoodie out of the backseat as he exited the car, and called, "Hey Sam! Catch!"

Sam turned just in time to snag the hoodie that was hurtling toward his head. He extended the arm holding the piece of clothing toward his brother, and lifted a questioning brow.

"Dude. We're shopping for pants, remember? Animated garden gnome statues? With sharp teeth? Any of this ringing a bell? We don't want to scare the natives, little brother, unless mooning an entire store is your idea of a good way to pick up chicks."

Sam scowled, but dutifully tied the hoodie around his waist as he continued briskly toward the store, forcing Dean to jog to catch up.

The automatic doors slid smoothly open, and the Winchesters stepped into a brightly lit superstore that looked just like every other brightly lit superstore in America, except for one detail: there were no people in sight. Dean and Sam made their way past the line of unmanned cash registers to their left and the 24-hour pharmacy counter on their right, and turned the corner into the store's center aisle. Fourteen additional aisles branched off of the main one, each helpfully marked with signage proclaiming the products they held. Dean did a quick scan of aisles 1-3, but found no sign of anyone else in the store. The cheerful strains of a Muzak version of "Peaceful, Easy Feeling" tinkled merrily over the store's speakers.

"Well this is creepy," Dean observed finally.

Sam nodded.

They stood there for another moment in silence, until Dean broke it by sighing and pulling the gun out of his waistband.

"The way our luck's been running, I guess it would be optimistic for me to think that maybe they all went out back for a smoke break, wouldn't it?"

Sam huffed out a short laugh. "Yeah."

"Don't suppose you're packing, are you?"

"Where exactly would I be keeping the gun, Dean?" Sam indicated the ruined jeans that were currently being held in place primarily by the strategically tied hoodie.

"Right. Stay behind me. Let's find out what's going on." Sam fell into step behind his brother, pausing only to snatch a heavy-duty flashlight off of an endcap. He didn't need the light, but the heft of the flashlight was reassuring.

Aisles 4 - 8 were just as deserted as the first three had been, but as the Winchesters drew closer to the ninth aisle, Dean stopped suddenly.

"Did you hear that?" he whispered. "Sounded like footsteps. Running."

A high-pitched giggle sounded from aisle 10, followed by more quick footsteps, and the men exchanged a knowing look.

"Perfect end to a beautiful freaking day," muttered Dean, pressing himself flat against the Pringle's display at the end of aisle 9 and readying his weapon. Sam quickly crossed to the end of the next aisle and mirrored his brother's position. Slowly, Dean moved to peer around the corner.

"I don't see any bod - ," Dean began, but was cut off when a human form suddenly popped up from behind a freestanding cardboard cutout of a Keebler Elf and flew at him with an unholy screech, smashing into the potato chip-laden endcap directly beside where Dean had been standing.

"Holy shit!" Dean stumbled backward but held onto his gun, aiming and squeezing off 3 quick shots. The screech cut off as the thing's head snapped back, and it dropped onto the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. Cautiously, Sam approached the body to examine it.

It was a woman - or had been one at some point. The t-shirt and jeans it wore were torn and bloodstained. Limp, shoulder-length blonde hair framed a misshapen, gray-skinned face. Sightless milky-yellow orbs shone dully where eyes had once been, and blood oozed darkly from its open mouth. Three neat bullet holes marred its forehead, but no blood came from them.

Dean came up beside Sam, his automatic still aimed at the thing's forehead. "So, what the hell do you think that is?" he asked conversationally.

Sam frowned in concentration. "Can't be a zombie, unless they levitate," he noted, recalling the two-foot gap he had seen between the creature's Nike running shoes and the S-Mart's polished floor as it moved.

Dean prodded the body with his booted foot. "Huh," he said after a minute. "Awful solid for a spirit."

Both men stared at the thing for another long moment. Finally Sam cleared his throat. "So, salt and burn?"

"Yeah." Dean squinted at the signage for another moment, then gestured in the direction they had come from. "Lighter Fluid should be near aisle 5 with the outdoor furniture and cookout stuff, and the condiments are down here on 9." Dean returned his attention to the body lying in front of them, training his weapon on the corpse just in case. Sam turned and jogged toward aisle 5, leaving Dean to call after him, "Be careful! There could be more of them around!" His brother waved a hand in acknowledgement as he disappeared into the Home and Garden section.

Sam snagged a purple duffel bag from the luggage display and quickly filled it with lighter fluid, matches and a few boxes of rock salt that he found near the ice cream makers, then headed back to Dean, only to see his brother take three quick steps back from the prone figure on the ground, which had started twitching ominously.

"I think Little Miss Undead USA is about to start round two," Dean said urgently. "We need to tie this thing up and get it out of here." Dean glanced around the store and smiled as his gaze lit upon a hardware display. "Aisle 12. Hardware," he said, and Sam started that way at a run. "See if they've got rope! Or chains! Chains would be good!"

Directing his gaze back at the thing in front of him, Dean realized two things simultaneously: One, that he had seriously underestimated the creature's recovery time; and two, that he wasn't standing far enough away from it.

"SAM!" Dean managed a warning shout as he leapt backward, bringing his gun up and aiming. "She's awake!"

With an ear-splitting shriek, the thing propelled itself with inhuman speed toward Dean, who managed to get off one shot before being knocked flat on his back, gun sliding uselessly away over the polished floor and coming to rest underneath a shelf two aisles away. Sam had rounded the corner of aisle 12 just in time to see his brother go down, his gaze tracking the path of the loose gun. He started for the weapon at the same time as his brother spoke.

"Sam! GUN!" Dean managed before the creature wrapped its hands around his neck and started to squeeze.

"I'LL SWALLOW YOUR SOUL! I'LL SWALLOW YOUR SOUL!" it screamed into Dean's face.

"Swallow this!" Sam's head snapped up and around at the sound of a new voice, just in time to see a dark-haired, shotgun-wielding man advancing on Dean and the creature. Without missing a beat, the man fired both barrels and the thing slumped forward onto Dean, the top half of its head completely gone.

Ignoring his brother's grunts of disgust as he fought his way out from under the now dead and oozing creature, Sam aimed his weapon at the newcomer and calmly inquired, "Who the hell are you?"

"Name's Ash," the man said, indicating the nametag on his red S-Mart vest. Jerking his head in the direction of aisle 14 he added, "Housewares," as though that explained everything.

Sam risked a questioning glance at his brother, who was struggling to his feet, brushing at the gore that adorned his jacket. Dean met Sam's gaze with an incredulous one of his own, then both men turned to study the third.

Ash transferred the shotgun to his left hand and scratched at his head with his right. As Dean and Sam followed the movement, they noticed that Ash was wearing something that looked like a medieval gauntlet on his right hand. The flourescent lighting glinted off of its metallic surface.

Dean said something under his breath that could have been either "Awesome!" or "Buckets of crazy!" Sam wasn't sure.

The clerk continued, "Sorry about the mess. These Deadites are a real bitch to deal with--keep popping up every year on this date. Like Whack-a-Moles, only smellier." He paused for a moment, scrutinizing the Winchesters, his eyes finally coming to rest on Sam and the gun he held. "You mind not aiming that thing at me? Oh, and nice pants, by the way."

Sam lowered his weapon, looking on the verge of launching into either a defensive rant or about a thousand painstakingly detailed questions, so Dean cut him off. "What's a deadite?"

"Some kind of evil thing, maybe a demon. Haven't really thought about it much. They show up, I kill 'em and burn 'em, then do it all over again next year--lather, rinse, repeat."

Standing between aisles 10 and 11 in a Michigan S-Mart, Dean could clearly see two courses of action before him. One was likely to end in some damn ridiculous quest involving pain and more shredded pants, while the other meant the possibility of a good night's sleep and a truck stop breakfast. The elder Winchester didn't hestiate. As Sam screwed up his face in classic 'I cannot control my curiosity, even when I have no pants' mode, Dean made his choice. Stepping in front of his brother, he clapped Ash on the shoulder and said, "Well, let us help you get rid of this one, and then we need some pants. And maybe some coffee and Twizzlers."

Ash nodded. "Sure. Let me grab a tarp and a mop." He turned and disappeared toward the back of the store. As soon as he was out of sight, Sam stepped up beside Dean, confusion coloring his features.

Dean held up a hand to forestall the coming speech. "Dude. I know you have to always know everything about everything, but just let it be. You're tired, I'm tired, and this Ash guy's got it under control. Let's burn the evil dead thing and move on. Haven't you had your ass kicked enough for one night?"

As his brother's expression shifted to indignation, Dean added, "Did you know that your mouth gets really tiny when you're having a snit?"

"DEAN!" But the elder Winchester's attention had already wandered to aisle 13.

"Oh, look, Sammy! Menswear!"

Sam's shoulders slumped as his frustration left him. He was tired, his butt hurt, and he was in danger of violating several indecent exposure laws. Besides, the aroma coming from the snack bar was strangely enticing.

An hour later, armed with new clothes, some surprisingly decent coffee and about four pounds of Twizzlers, Sam and Dean made their way across the parking lot to the Impala. After depositing their purchases in the trunk, Dean slid behind the wheel and Sam got into the passenger's side, relishing the way that his flesh no longer stuck to the upholstery. Dean cranked the car and started out of the parking space, slowing and rolling down his window when Ash appeared at the store entrance.

"Here," the clerk said, tossing a couple of boxes of shotgun shells to Dean through the driver's side window. "In case you ever run into any more deadites. Made these rounds myself--work better than regular storebought."

Dean nodded, impressed. "Thanks."

"No problem." Ash started back inside, then turned at the last minute, calling, "And remember! Shop Smart! Shop S-Mart!"

Dean nodded and Sam gave a half-wave of acknowledgement as the Impala accelerated.

"Ya know, Sammy, I kinda liked that dude's style," Dean said.

Sam took a thoughtful sip of his coffee, and asked, "You ever going into an S-Mart again?"

"Oh, hell no," Dean replied.

Sam snickered and took another sip of his coffee, watching as the S-Mart's reflection in the side mirror dwindled to nothing.