I have a tradition of putting out at least one Halloween-themed fic per year, but this year, with all the fandoms I'm involved in, I'm going to try one for each major fandom. Here's the Supernatural offering.

"Dude, I hate Halloween. You know why?" Dean asked.

"Because you thought that guy was possessed because of his black eyes, and you threw holy water on him and his kids, but it turned out he was just wearing creepy contact lenses and then his fairy-princess daughter kicked you?" Sam ventured.

"Exactly! I mean, how are we supposed to hunt demons when everyone's running around with black eyes or red eyes or Lady Gaga eyes?"

"Dean, we've been over this. Lady Gaga isn't possessed, she's just weird," Sam replied.

Dean didn't answer, as all his attention had been diverted to a scruffy middle-aged man standing on the other side of the street. There was blood on the man's plaid shirt and, when he turned to watch the Impala, which was now creeping down the road, he revealed white eyes.

"No, no, you can not be serious! Sam, you ganked that son of a bitch!"

The white-eyed, apparently un-ganked son of a bitch stepped off the sidewalk and Dean almost swerved at him. It was only Sam's hand suddenly on the wheel that kept the Impala straight in its lane. Dean swallowed resolutely and instead of the accelerator, stepped on the brake.

The man approached the driver's side of the car. Dean unscrewed his flask of holy water and prayed he still had some left after dousing the innocent dad and his gaggle of costumed kids earlier.

"I'm not saying you are, but there are some real weird people out tonight, and driving slow like that and staring, well… You're not a pedophile, are you?" the man asked as he bent down to window-level.

Dean's mouth dropped open and remained like that, as though the muscles in his jaws had atrophied.

Sam unobtrusively elbowed Dean in the ribs. As though reset, Dean closed his mouth and managed to grin. The forced grin didn't do anything to make him look like a law-abiding citizen with legal sexual tendencies.

Sam came to the rescue. He leant forward so the man at the window could see him clearly.

"We weren't looking at the kids, I swear. It was you, actually. My brother thought he recognized you from somewhere," Sam said.

To both brothers' surprise, the man exclaimed, "Finally!"

"So he, uh, did recognize you from somewhere?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, season two of The Walking Dead. I was an extra. Rick shot me. I wanted Daryl to do it, because, hey, fan-favorite, but I still got my first on-camera death," the man said.

"Duh!" Dean smacked himself in the forehead. "I love that show. And this is your zombie—"

"Walker," Sam cut in. "Walker outfit. It's really awesome."

The zombie extra grinned. "It was better on the show, when I had professionals to do the makeup. The eyes aren't quite right, either, but white's the best I could do."

"It still looks bad ass," Sam said.

"Hey, you want to see something even more bad ass? Here comes my kid. Check this out."

The zombie dad abandoned the Impala and hurried back onto the sidewalk. A boy of six or seven had just appeared on a porch and his overstuffed bag of candy threatened to topple him forward down the steps. Before the little dude could ruin his Halloween by cracking his skull open, his dad scooped him up and swung the boy onto his shoulders.

"What do you think? Great idea or what?" the zombie dad asked. He set the kid down and let Sam and Dean get a look at him.

The kid was dressed as a sheriff and he carried a water gun made from translucent yellow and blue plastic, as though it had been designed to look as little like a real firearm as possible. The sheriff outfit was streaked and smeared with blood, implying the kid had gotten up close and personal with the hungry undead, and the hat looked like someone had tried to take a bite out of it.

"This isn't a democracy anymore. It's a Ricktatorship!" The kid aimed his water gun into the Impala's open window and shot Dean in the face.

Sam laughed as Dean sputtered and wiped water from his eyes. As soon as Dean's vision was clear, the kid shot him again.

"I gotta protect the group from the walkers!" the kid proclaimed.

"Stop it! I'm not a freakin' walker!" Dean shouted, using his arm to shield himself from further attack.

Sam, grinning like a demon, said, "That's just what a walker would say, if they could talk."

The mini-sheriff needed no further encouragement. He doused Dean a third time and Dean decided enough was enough. He rolled the Impala's window up.

"Don't let him ruin your Halloween." Sam shouted so he could be heard through the glass. "He's just mad because he's too old for candy."

"No, I'm mad because I'm wet, my baby's wet, and you're a bitch," Dean replied through clenched teeth.

"He's allergic to chocolate, anyway," Sam added.

The kid reached into his bag and pulled out a licorice. He pressed it against the window. Dean hesitated, like an animal sniffing at the mouth of a trap, and then rolled down the window to accept the apology treat.

The licorice disappeared and the water gun took its place. Before Dean could react, he was soaked again. This time, he forgot his annoying assailant was in second grade and probably had never seen anything raunchier than Shrek. Cursing all the while, Dean stepped on the gas and, holding the steering wheel with one hand, rolled up the window with the other.

Once they were a ways down the street, Dean looked in the rearview mirror. The dad/son combo were both pointing at the retreating Impala and laughing. Dean did the mature thing: he flipped them off.

"Nice, Dean," Sam muttered.

"Halloween sucks, Sammy. Now let's go get wasted and forget all about it."

The zombie and sheriff kept laughing even after the Impala turned a corner and disappeared from sight. They were still laughing as they crossed the street and entered the house the child had emerged from earlier. The door had been left slightly ajar and, as soon as he crossed the threshold, the undead dad pushed it shut.

"The Sam and Dean Winchester," the father said with an appreciative whistle. He removed the colored contact lenses from his eyes and flicked them to the floor. One landed on the hardwood and the other in a spreading pool of blood.

"More like dumb and dumber. I knew these meat-suits would fool them. Didn't I tell you? Were my exact words not 'go big or go home'?" the little boy asked in a voice no second-grader, or any human, really, should have possessed.

"I hated those damned contact lenses. Scratchy as hell. But I guess it was worth it to see the great Dean Winchester nearly piss himself."

"And who suggested that? Who said it would cause one raging case of PTSD? And the cute little family of horror fans, whose idea was that? And let's not forget the squirt gun. I shot big brother Winchester right in the face! Come on, congratulate me."

"I only kiss one ass, and it isn't yours. Besides, you had all the real fun. While you were wasting granny here and shooting Dean Winchester, I had to be the lookout and act like a Hollywood reject."

"And you sure were good at it. If I didn't know any better, I wouldn't have even known you were acting."

The father's eyes flashed black and he hissed a warning to his partner. The boy laughed it off and dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

"Come on. If you're so sore about it, I'll let you put the razor blades in the candy apples and hand them out."

The demon dad turned his head and looked into the kitchen, where a tray of freshly made candy apples awaited eager children. It was that batch of shiny, sugarcoated apples that had caught the demon boy's attention, and it was the reason the senior citizen who had spent all day slaving over a pot of hot sugar glaze with her arthritic hands was lying in a puddle of more bitter liquid.

"Well, happy Halloween to me."

The End