Author: Regala Electra
Warnings: Language, Violence
Word Count: 5,070
Summary: Dean's heavily medicated, wounded, bearded, and gunning for revenge. Sam is just along for the ride, 'cause he's pretty sure he'll be in trouble if he lets his brother get arrested (or worse) because of a stupid prank. Man, he hates Halloween.
Author’s Notes: Because Stef laughed when I told her my idea for this story. Lovely graphic is care of ignited. Written for the spn_halloween. Prompt: The Impala gets egged, and Dean sets off to find the culprits and exact revenge. Teen!Winchesters. Lookit, I wrote Gen! *remembers when I thought I'd "only" write Gen. Feedback is love.
October 31, 1998
“We’re doing this, Sam. I don’t care if it’s against the fuckin’ word of Dad,” and here, Dean pauses, breathes, as if expecting Dad to come storming in, ready to forcibly tie Dean to his bed, “We’re finding the bastards that did this to my baby.”
“Dean, you can’t even carry a blowtorch," Sam protests when Dean closes the trunk after assessing the arsenal Dad left behind, just in case, "What are you going to do with a flamethrower?”
“Dude, why do you think I’m lettin' my lameass little brother tag along?”
“I dunno, maybe to keep you from killing yourself? You’re on painkillers and your arm—”
Dean rolls his eyes and nearly passes out but he sees it through, smacking Sam’s hand away when Sam tries to steady him. “This is gonna be done, Sammy. With or without your help.”
Sam wishes that they’d never moved to this stupid town where everyone takes Halloween so freaking seriously.
It starts five days before Halloween, Dean fresh out of the hospital, arm in a piece-of-eight sling, medication to last him "damn near a month," he says, shaking the bottle at Sam like a freakin' rattle. Already he's overdoing it, but that’s okay, that means Dean's on the mend, he even shrugs and says he won't use up all the pills, which is kinda true, Sam hates to admit. Dean makes sure to split the pills in half, handing them over to Dad just saying you're gonna need it for the first aid kit.
Because the moment the doctors told Dad that Dean would be fine, he'd told them that he wanted Dean discharged right then and there, not because Dean hates hospitals (he does), but because the trail was getting cold and Dean needed to be home.
After all, it wasn't anything that serious, what happened to Dean, right Dad? Yeah, silly roughhousing incident with some friends, some stupid prank, Sam doesn’t even remember the lame lie.
So there, Monday night, but early night, the family hour on the T.V., only not, ‘cause they’re “paying” for cable and if there's cable, there's something gross or pornographic (or both) on at all hours. Dean’s watching another horror movie and Sam’s trying to finish his homework while he waits for the pizza delivery because he didn’t realize until dinnertime rolled around that Dean usually sets up dinner. It's not that Sam can't cook, it's more that there’s no packaged food in the house and nothing more than beer and soda in the fridge.
When the doorbell finally rings, Sam jumps up, ache in his belly all the motivation he needs. He nearly trips on the way to the door, stupid sloping floor he can't get used to, and it's only years of training that keep him from slamming right into the door. The twenty’s all crumpled in his hand, but he doesn’t care, because food. Yanks the door open and—nothing.
It’s only until he looks down that he sees a brown paper bag, kind used to stuff lunch—or, now, thinking about it, worse in it—but it’s not in fire, so, there’s that. Still, a bag of something on his doorstep isn’t something he’s ever wanted and come on, sure, he’s still the New Kid, but Dean’s not in school anymore, so why is someone picking on him?
Sam's done nothing to deserve this and he steps outside, further, maybe walks into a trap, but there's nothing out there. The crisp autumn air a little too much for Sam; he left his flannel overshirt draped over his chair and his socks have been worn down after too many spin cycles.
There’s no one, dry rustle of leaves, the bend of the road curving off into the part of the block that has actual houses on it, not the creepy old hunter’s house they’re currently holed up in, sprawling ugly thing that looks like an oversized shack. Unintentionally, this house looks perfect for this time of year. If they were like other people, they’d barely have to decorate it to be spooky. But spooky’s all relative, and mystery bags of stuff do kinda weird Sam out.
But not enough for him to add further to his list of reasons why he hates living here. No, he’s already got a good reason lying on the couch, working a beard that looks stupid instead of badass (but all Dean says when Sam makes fun of the Beard is that Sam wishes he could grow facial hair). Sam would love to know what it’s like not having to baby-sit his brother ‘cause Dean has to take it easy after the incident, careful crafting around the ugly thing that did happen: Dean didn’t move quick enough when a poltergeist tossed a couch down the stairs, the couch following after Dean and all it cost Dean was use of his left arm to keep himself from getting flattened.
When Sam goes to check out the bag, he hears Dean, muttering through a haze of pain, “Sam, what the hell are you doing to the pie? You can’t eat it all, bitch. I need to take my pills on a full stomach.”
“There’s no food,” Sam says, hollow, so damn hungry.
“Dammit, it’s been how long? Whatever, it’s free now. If you give that delivery boy money, I’m gonna smack you with my good hand.”
Only Dean, with a fractured collarbone and fractured wrist, and a doctor’s order to “take it easy” would think about starting a fight. (Okay, Dad would do the same, but Dean’s always managed to calm down Dad when it came that stuff, Sam doesn’t really get it, maybe because Dean does whatever Dad tells him to, but when Dean asks Dad to take it easy he does, meanwhile if Sam says anything, Dad’s ready to fight with him. So yeah, that’s fair.) Sam can’t say anything because Dean turns up the volume, really needs to hear the monster munching on bones, not like Sam has anything to say as it is.
Sam considers flinging the bag of whatever at Dean, a short intense burst of frustration that he manages to clamp down. It’s finally at that time that he realizes that there are these things drawn on the bag, black marker doodles and scribbles and when he bends down, he sees that there’s a note pinned to the front. Removes it, to read:
The mystery annoys Sam, random clues he has to sort through when working on hunting stuff with Dad and Dean so he ignores it, opens the bag, and yes, there’s candy, lots of chocolate bars, good stuff, the fun-sized bag of pretzels in the orange wrapping, he sets those aside, Dean can have that, needs something with his pills after all.
But first, eating, and he bring the bag into the kitchen without Dean noticing, carefully spreading the contents along the counter next to the sink. It’s all wrapped and clearly not tampered, Sam learned to watch out for that kind of stuff for another reason, and there’s milk chocolate and dark chocolate, the kind with nuts, the coconut-and-almond ones, and the caramel ones. Good thing Dean’s too invested in the movie to ask where Sam is: stuffing his face in the kitchen.
Only thing left is the dingy bag of pretzels and a Smarties candy necklace by the time Sam’s finished.
That’s gonna be a great meal for Dean and suddenly Sam feels the selfish guilt weighing down on his full stomach, nearly making him sick.
Fortunately he doesn’t have to offer Dean the lame leftovers. The doorbell ringing for real this time, and Sam’s happy to pay the poor guy, Dean’ll probably forget once Sam hands him food about that whole stiffing the guy thing.
What Dean doesn’t forget is that Sam doesn’t eat a single slice of the pizza, pointing it out as a blob of sauce gets stuck on Dean’s stupid beard, Dean doesn’t bother to wipe it off and Sam can’t stop looking.
Sam lamely makes the excuse that he has a stomachache. He wraps the leftovers in aluminum foil, the three slices he kept Dean from eating, for a nice breakfast of cold pizza.
The bag of candy was meant for someone else.
He realizes it when he’s poking at the cold fried chicken on his plate, debating whether he wants to eat instant mashed potatoes with the filmy gravy that he asked for on the side because he knows better to trust having school cafeteria food mixed up together. Just as he sighs in defeat, realizing he should do what everyone else seems to do and just order a plate of French fries, the only stuff that comes off the line hot, he overhears a couple of people talking about who hasn’t been ghosted yet.
“Ghosting?” Stupidly looks up and one of the people sitting at his table hears him. He’s not at the loser table, but the “smart but not too smart table”, where underachieving gifted sophomore students tend to congregate, all six of them at this school. (Because even if someone’s a freak or loser or badass, they take to their roles pretty damn hardcore around these parts, the smart kids who don’t bother to study, not so much, they’re the anomaly within high school’s absurdly rigid social structure.)
Sam’s not really that shocked that he’s sitting here even if he’s probably the only one here who actually studies before tests.
One of them, Scott, the unofficial leader, Sam knew it when he’d eyed Sam on the first day of school, told him he was welcome to sit wherever he’d want but if he sat with them, you’d be doomed to being awesome (and yeah, it reminds Sam of Dean and it’s stupid for that to be the reason why Sam joined their table, but there it is), says to Sam, “I guess they don’t do it from where you’re from?”
“Uh, no.” Tries to remember if he’s fumbled around with the general story, his family having to move around a lot, but he doesn’t know. Better to say nothing here. “So what, it’s like a nice prank?”
“Prank?” This coming from Danielle, who Sam is pretty sure has a major crush on Scott but doesn’t do anything about it, awkwardly pushing up on her crooked glasses. “Ghosting’s not a prank.”
“It’s like, well if you get one, consider it a part of the welcome wagon that you didn’t get ‘cause you guys moved in so quietly,” Scott says, pushing his plate towards Sam, offering up his genuinely hot fries. “It’s like a pre-Halloween tradition. A bag of candy for whoever and then you gotta ghost two other people if it says so on the note.”
Everyone nods their heads, Danielle adding, “And you have to be anonymous.”
“Yeah,” Scott says, quick smile that makes Danielle’s cheeks pink not like Scott notices it, “that’s it.”
Sam’ll never understand all these intricate rituals. Not just dating, but the way towns all have their own weird little deals. This place in particular, maybe because it’s so small it’s not really a town at all—a village all the Welcome To signs proudly proclaim—and he tries not to be freaked out by everyone’s interest in everyone else’s lives, but it makes it more annoying to have to hide all the real things going on in the world, monsters and actual ghosts, not these stupid ghostings.
Only thing it does good is make it easy to keep from getting attached to the place, to the people.
When he goes to toss out his half-eaten food (and he stole half of Scott’s food but Scott was cool with it, going off to get another order of fries, he even thanked Sam for the excuse for seconds), he almost trods right into one of the popular people, a cheerleader, but not in uniform, they only walk around school in those outfits on a game day. He ducks his head down and mumbles an apology, sees the swish of Nordic blonde hair that makes him feel like a total idiot because he’s sure that Dean could not be a spazz but then, Dean would also be gross.
“It’s no problem,” she tells him and it’s her voice that makes him remember that she’s in his A.P. European History class, always seated a row behind the front (the real overachievers), one of the few that actually has the right answer for their kinda evil teacher’s complicated questions.
So Sam decides to smoothly back away without saying anything else, because yeah, he’s that good. Ugh.
So this is school spirit before Halloween:
Sam gets shoved against the lockers on his way to English, for no good reason. It’s too quick; he doesn’t see who does it.
Doesn’t matter, everyone seems to be acting like they’ve taken a lot of happy pills and before Sam can suspect some weird jinx or curse, someone yells, “They repealed the curfew!”
Curfew. A few innocuous questions later, he finds out that due to some bad stuff that went down about twenty years ago, there had been a 9 p.m. curfew for Halloween but it’s finally been repealed, thanks to all the kids banding together, petitions, all kinds of young civic duty that probably did the aging local politicians proud.
And Halloween’s on a Saturday.
Man, this is going to be crazy.
And on Thursday, he keeps on hearing people talking about how awesome tomorrow will be, not just a Friday, but all the teachers will be slacking off to and which grade’ll win the costume contest (the senior class are such slackers, the sophomores totally deserve it this year!) and who will win overall and all the parties on Saturday and who’s going where and oh yeah, the Halloween dance for the junior high, who’s volunteering to go, who has a sister or brother going and hey, did you ever notice how short all those kids look now, isn’t that funny?
Dread is all that Sam feels at the moment.
And that’s before he notices that someone sprayed shaving cream in his gym locker, has to clean it out before the gym teacher notices, late for class, great.
Sam doesn’t want to talk about Friday, how he was counting done the minutes to get away from like everyone, there wasn’t one person in the school that doesn’t take to the holiday serious, and there were enough pranks going on that Sam didn’t care about gross stuff left in his regular locker.
The weirdest thing was the candy necklace left on his desk when he’d gotten to his history class, but that was easy to take care of, handing it to whoever was sitting next to him, as it didn’t look poisoned, still in its plastic packaging.
And now, it’s D-Day, Halloween day, and Sam’s more than bored because Dean’s impossible to be around when he’s like this.
Dean’s bad tempered, which Sam chalks up to him not being a good napper, always get pissy. He’s just woken up from an abrupt twenty minute nap, missed the ending of Monster Squad, bemoaning that fact and how much the current movie, some cheap slasher movie that doesn’t even do good blood splatters, completely sucks.
(It’s not like Sam’s watching these stupid movies, it’s just, he doesn’t have any studying to do and he’s stuck at home making sure his brother doesn’t kill himself by trying to mix pills and booze and drowning in his spit and—okay he’s also thinking of how tore up Dean was after that hunt went bad—he just really can’t wait for Halloween to be over.)
But by not talking, Dean drops off to sleep again, which is good because Sam does like to hear dialogue sometimes. However the brief peace doesn’t last, because at a quarter past eleven (not a guess, time shown on the alarm clock Sam set up in the living room, keeping track of when Dean’s taking his prescriptions), it happens.
Hard thuds to the door, not a knock, something else, slight cracking noise and then, laughing. Dean wakes with a snort, loud smacking of his lips, looking all over until his vision focuses, narrows.
“The fuckers. They egged us? I thought you were manning the door for these Halloween happy freaks.”
Sam just looks at the bowl set over the door, cheap candy he’d picked up after Dean had called him, using the busted cell phones that sounded no better than crackling static, walkie-talkies. (Walkie-talkies would be easier, almost, considering they live within walking distance from the school, one of those happy accidents that wound up being useful ‘cause of Dean’s unhappy accident.)
“Hey, see if you can see who did it.”
Stupid that Dean has to say that or that Sam does go to the window, and then—oh man—sees in the cracked concrete driveway Dean’s car. Egged. No, it’s worse than that, egged and shaving cream too, all over the grill, hood and Sam blurts out, “It’s the car.”
Mistake, knows it the second the words come out but doesn’t matter, time slowing down, enough that Dean somehow manages to get off the couch, can hear Dean making his way over, not to the window, to the door, flinging it open.
Sam sees the faint outline of some kid running away, wearing one of those goddamn Scream masks, gets knocked off, dirty blonde hair glinting under the street lights, yellowed.
There might have been a few guys with him, can’t make those guys out ‘cause they’re jumping into a car down the block, squeal of the wheels as they tear off.
And Dean goes very, very still. Says, after a heavy pause, “Those sons of bitches. Late 80’s Jeep. I saw the first letters on the license plate. What did you see? That looked like four guys to you?”
And Sam can’t breathe.
“Dean, we can’t go after them. You’re, you’re hurt and if we get caught—”
“Oh, the only people getting caught tonight are those fuckers. Goddamn. I hate teenagers.”
“You’re nineteen, Dean.”
The trouble isn't just that Dean when Dean's cruising the artificial high of too many painkillers he's kind of unreasonable, it's that he becomes a caped crusader without the cape, suddenly every little slight amps up his insane need for revenge.
“So? I’m nineteen and I hate goddamn pissant teenagers that think they can get away with egging my freakin’ car. C’mon Sammy, we got work to do.”
“God, you ever get taller than me,” Dean mumbles, slumping over the roof of the car, and by doing that, he has to look up at Sam, so what’s the point? Oh yeah, Dean’s on the warpath and on painkillers and Sam has to stop him before he kills himself. “I’mma be pissed. Stop growing.”
“Okay, fine,” Sam says, tries to grab Dean’s keys but misses, Dean ducking down to get in the car, not easy, his balance still off since he’s wearing his stupid jacket and now looks like a crazy one-armed man with a mission.
It wouldn’t be right to punch out Dean just to steal his keys, right? With Sam’s luck, he’ll probably give Dean a concussion or something and have to bring him back to the emergency room.
So this is how it is. Sam in the car, marveling at Dean’s ability to drive even though the doctors had been really insistent that Dean not to do anything to stress his fractures and the fact that he’s on medication that has the friendly do not operate heavy machinery warning on it.
“We’re not going to find them,” Sam says, and if he says it enough, he’ll believe it. “Almost everyone has a Jeep—”
“So you’re the scarecrow, huh?”
Dean rolls his eyes, which he really shouldn’t do; he should be keeping his eyes on the road, all these winding roads, really hilly town, dips and valleys. “You’re pretending you don’t have a brain in that huge head of yours? Think, Sammy. How far are those fuckers gonna get and where are they gonna be hiding out? And should I make ‘em use their toothbrushes to clean the car or should I make ‘em break open a carwash to clean up my baby?”
Sam would like to say it’s just a car but Dean’s scary now, his one good hand gripping the steering wheel hard, knuckles turning white.
Okay, time to think.
“Uh, I think if they were driving that fast, they had to be turning off of Main Street, cops’ll probably be around there, so they’d be going over the turnpike, which means—”
“Rich kids,” Dean cuts in. “Spoiled and arrogant. I’m liking this better and better.”
Sam blinks, because he doesn’t know how much Dean actually knew about the town politics, surprised that Dean bothered to pay attention. “How did you—?”
“Hey, before the poltergeist fucked up my game, I was working my A game on a smokin’ chick. Monica,” Dean says, doing that gross chuckle that never fails to completely skeeve Sam out.
The drive is sadly not fruitless, ten minutes in and they spot it, or Sam does, Dean looping around the street twice before he notices the Jeep parked crookedly in a long driveway, immaculate house and lawn, confidentially picturesque.
“They’re not here,” Sam says, confident because he’s been holding back on some information, the Halloween parties that everyone was chattering about and there’s no way that any teenagers, except for Sam, are going to be home early tonight.
“No but we can get some info from the prick’s parents,” Dean answers back, tries to open the door with his right hand and then, coughing, says, “Um, Sam, could you help me out of the car?”
Sam would love to say no but he’d rather not leave his homicidal brother alone to hunt his prey.
“That really is a great costume, very understated,” Mrs. Puglisi says. (Or rather, Natalie, which is how she introduced herself to Dean, all fluttery voiced and flustered hands when he complimented her on her She-Devil outfit, which is weird because how can Dean hits on someone so much older?)
“Uh, well, I do my best,” Dean says, even though all he’s done is not shave, leaving him with a stubbly beard that kind of cracks Sam up, it’s like he’s trying to be Dad but didn’t realize that when he grows out his beard it turns a reddish brown, doesn’t really make him look all that older, hell, he looks older with just stubble. Now he’s just Dean with a red beard.
“I’m so glad to see the innovative stuff that people came up with year,” she says, leaning into the door, then, she says, with a polite smile, sweet with the criticism, “But though you’re a one-armed zombie, you really do move too fast for a zombie.”
Sam’s not sure if it’s the implication that Dean looks like the dead or that he doesn’t know how to walk like one of Romero’s zombies that has Dean more insulted. The look on his face though, that’s priceless.
“I’m not a zombie,” Dean says but the door gets effectively shut in their faces.
Fantastic, so now Dean’s extra-pissed off and he’d flirted enough with the mother of Tommy Puglisi, suspect Number One, that he’s ready to knock a couple of head together. Which is impossible considering Dean’s current impairment, but that won’t stop Dean from trying.
“Okay, so Tommy ain’t at home, you got any other idea where the fuck that little prick’s hiding?”
“Dean, I don’t—”
“Sam,” Dean cuts in, effectively silencing Sam with that look of his, asking Sam to drop the bullshit, the anger radiating off of him giving some color to Dean’s vaguely undead pallor, “quick test, what group is Tommy in at school?”
“How should I know? He’s a senior and—”
Dean silences Sam with a game buzzer noise and he makes his shambling way to the car (which does look like Dean’s walking like a too-fast zombie and Sam’s grateful that they’ve never come across actual zombies, at least Dean’s body parts aren’t falling off, despite his jacket making him look one-armed). He says, “Please, you do the creepy watching thing all the fuckin’ time. So give up your stalker mojo, Sammy.”
Sam goes to argue again, but then he realizes he does know, groans, and says, “He’s on the football team.”
“Oh, fuckin’ awesome.” Dean’s back in the car, Sam following him, sees Dean miss the ignition once, twice, god this is such a bad idea. “I’ve got a jock gunning for me? Man, I love those blowhards. Easy as hell to scare until they’re pissin’ their pants.”
Never mind how they got here because Sam is going to block out that part, all the parties they crashed, his not-friends, but lunch group, seeing him barging in with his doped-out brother, looking like psycho-killers (“Great costume!” someone at yelled at Dean, “Where’s your chainsaw, Ash?” someone else said, which made no sense as Ash was missing a hand, not an entire arm, safely tucked away in Dean’s jacket).
Only they did it, found Tommy and a couple of others who took off, but it doesn’t matter because Tommy had sneered, “Winchester,” and that was all it took for Dean.
He might be slightly out of commission but Dean’s always had a magnificent right hook.
No, what’s important is that Tommy says, not to Dean, but to Sam, “You send your brother after me? Fuckin’ baby, don’t know what Jamie sees in you.”
Sam gapes, startled, staring at Tommy Puglisi, big badass senior knocked flat on his drunk ass by Dean, and suddenly, sickening lurch, because the cheerleader girl? The one who he sits behind in history class, who loves candy necklaces, and tried to talk to him on Tuesday, she’d, oh man, she’d—
Her name is Jamie.
“I didn’t do anything!” Sam protests, throwing his arms in the air, sick of this stupid, stupid holiday.
“Yeah, nothing,” Tommy says, spitting blood onto the grass of the backyard of someone’s home, Sam doesn’t even know who’s house this is, “She fucking ghosted you, dude. Me and Jamie break up a fucking week ago and I gotta hear through the goddamn grapevine about Jamie cryin’ her heart out in the bathroom ‘cuz you totally fucking dismissed her.”
Dean blinks, turns to Sam. “Dude, you made a girl cry?”
“What? I didn’t—I didn’t do anything to her.”
“I get dumped and she picks out a fucking nerd who won’t give her the time of day. She might be a goddamn bitch,” Tommy shouts, standing up doing the drunkard’s sway, still, he gets into Sam’s face, alcohol sour-sick on his breath, “But I don’t know what the hell you are.”
“He’s my brother,” Dean intones, carefully. “And why the fuck did you attack my car?”
“‘He’s my brother,’” Tommy says, a bad mimic, no one around him to laugh, throws him off. “Whatever. If the cops weren’t out patrolling, it’d be a lot worse.”
“Would it now?”
Oh fuck. Sam may have said that out loud, but no one’s listening to him. So he says, a little louder, “Dean—”
Doesn’t get anymore more words out because Tommy takes a shot, lucky one, right jab to Sam’s nose, and yes, those are stars that Sam sees, beyond the pain.
“Now you’ve done it,” Dean’s voice goes all soft, “I think I’m really feeling the Halloween thing this town’s got going right now.”
When Sam opens his eyes, squinting through the pain, and he should be able to handle this more, he’s had worse after all, he sees Dean smiles, the scary one, where his eyes are glinting full of malicious intent.
But Sam’s just so done with all of this, that he can’t find another excuse not to help Dean on getting his—their—revenge.
Sam unceremoniously drops the bowl of cereal in front of Dean which wakes him up straight away. Pushing himself to a sitting position, Dean says, “You still pissed?”
Considers not saying anything but that doesn’t help, so all Sam can say is, “We shouldn’t have done that.”
“Dude, are you upset ‘cause I’m better at egging a house even if my collarbone’s all fucked up?”
It had been something else, the president of the PTA had a real nice house and after Sam and Dean were done, well, it was something really worth seeing. Also notable was the main lawn decoration, Tommy Puglisi sprawled out, clearly sleeping one off.
“God, Dean, you realize we just forced the town to reinstate the curfew law here again? And that everyone is gonna blame Tommy Puglisi?”
“Man,” Dean says, taking it all in. “My plans are awesome when I’m hopped up pills. Speaking of, we got anything besides beer? I need to take a few before my body wakes up and starts really aching.”
“Yeah, ‘cause your brain is always awake, right Dean?”
“Fuck yeah it is. And if you don’t comfort that cute little Jane—”
“—the moment you see her today and, oh, almost forgot.” Dean snaps his fingers under Sam’s nose, just to be extra-annoying, adding, “You better apologize for being the world’s biggest idiot. I mean, come on, how you miss the chick signals that she wants to see your scrawny body in all its dorky glory without my hand-me downs? Unless she just the hots for me and doesn’t know it.”
“Well,” Sam says, in a philosopher kind of mood, “at least that way this’ll all be your fault then.”
“Oh no, Sammy. This one is all on you, little brother.”
“We’re the same height. You really can’t keep on calling me that.” But inside Sam’s head, he thinks to himself, smugly, and I bet I’m going to be taller than you anyway, short older brother.
“Yeah, you can smirk all you want but you’re still washing my car for the next friggin’ month.”
And that, yeah, that wipes the smile right off Sam’s face, because Dean wasn’t kidding when he swore revenge on whoever was responsible for what happened to his car.