#(pre-series)

House hears her before he sees her: no one can march in stilettoes like Lisa Cuddy. He has just enough time to glare at the elevator panel -- still on the third floor -- and resign himself before she's on him, sliding up and pivoting in a blur of silk and wool as though she is planning on taking the elevator too. He considers and then gives her a cheerful, sardonic, "Good morning, boss:" Sometimes, cutting Cuddy off before she can work herself into a lather is the wiser course.

"Good morning, Dr. House," she chirps, and that's alarming: House detects tension and irritation -- givens -- but also pleasure, a certain soupçon of smugness in those four words. She only calls him doctor when she's really about to screw him -- and never in the fun way. "I have good news," she continues, confirming his suspicion. Out of the corner of his eye House sees her pull a file from the stack she is holding.

Cuddy is always carrying around some notebook or file or chart or another, to the point that their effect is almost accessorial: pearl drop earrings, Tom Ford matte lipstick, charts of the five sickest patients in Princeton-Plainsboro. None of which are House's, mind. He hasn't taken a case in six weeks; a hundred dollars is riding on him making it to eight. Wilson is about to get richer, he thinks ruefully as the elevator doors finally slide open.

"You have a new fellow," Cuddy finishes, following him in and handing him not a patient but employee file. House takes it and shoves it under his arm without looking, only to prevent her waving it in his face.

"Funny. I don't remember hiring anyone."

"I thought I'd do you a favor," she says with a poisonous sweetness. She presses the button for the fourth floor.

"Funny. I don't remember asking --"

"You asked," Cuddy interrupts, "when you fired three fellows in a month."

"Leland quit," House reminds her. "And the other two were idiots."

"I gave you your own department on the condition that you have fellows. This is a teaching hospital. You're expected to teach. You've never kept a single fellow for more than two months --"

"Martinez has been here at least that long."

"Seven weeks," she says, as House is regretting his interruption: not that he's incorrect, or that Cuddy isn't being pedantic, but he'd sounded defensive. House doesn't mind having fellows so long as they aren't underfoot, keep to their office and don't bother him in his. They're invariably young and fit and arrogant, and House considers tasking them to fetch him food and doing his clinic hours to be an education: just because you made it through residency doesn't make you hot shit.

"Fine," House says, deciding in this case it will be better to acquiesce: it doesn't matter who fetches his coffee, and he's sure if he tries hard enough he can ensure Cuddy's pet won't last eight days.

"Fine?" Cuddy echoes: she probably has an inkling of his plans, by merit of not being an idiot.

"I'm sure she's going to be a wonderful addition to the team," House mocks as they arrive on the fourth floor. "It is a woman, isn't it? Some bright, eager young ingénue making her mark in a man's world?" Cuddy, he thinks, would prefer if the hospital was filled with young women with chips on their shoulders and stress-induced ulcers. He does not begrudge her for promoting her fellow woman, only finds the egotism amusing.

"He," Cuddy says pointedly. She is careful, always, to walk at exactly his pace, to not be rude by overtaking his limp, a thoughtful gesture that always irritates him.

"Making his mark in a man's world?" House jokes. "Vermont legalized civil unions, but New Jersey --"

"You're not firing him," Cuddy interrupts.

"Never," House says with deep sincerity. He means it: his new fellow will quit, and in the meanwhile House's office and perhaps home will never be cleaner.

Cuddy cuts him off, stepping in front of him and glowering only a few steps from his office: House can see the windows, the lights on in the conference room. "His father reached out to me," she says. "He asked for this job as a favor."

"This job, or a job?" House asks, abruptly curious: it's a fairly critical distinction, not to mention the suggestion of what Cuddy is getting in return.

"Are you familiar with Dr. Rowan Chase?" Cuddy presses on. "Rheumatology. Out of St. Anthony's in Melbourne."

House is, in fact. He has never met the man, but has read both of his textbooks. One of those doctors who didn't merely specialize but tripled down on his field, advancing not merely vasculitis research but any number of related disorders of the blood vessels. Undoubtedly a good resource if you have a patient with vascular problems, useless if you needed any other diagnosis. "Melbourne, Australia, or Melbourne, Arkansas?" House asks.

"Australia." Cuddy continues to glower, wary that House is about to argue. He would almost be offended, had she not had good reasons to believe this. Not this time: his curiosity is piqued. Surely Australia has hospitals: Dr. Rowan Chase's son is either abnormally stupid and has been blacklisted from the country writ large, or harbors a deep personal ambition to emigrate to northern New Jersey.

"He asked for a placement with me, or with you?" House asks again, by you referring generally to the entire hospital.

"He asked who the best doctor in this hospital was," Cuddy says, a red flag that House is too briefly smug to remark on, "and when I told him Dr. Thomas wasn't hiring..."

"Ouch," House says, unhurt but slightly offended: Thomas is an egomaniacal tool, and House is hypocritical enough to find him unbearable for that reason. "Some favor," he adds. "Dr. Chase asks you to pweeease hire his son, and you stick him with me? Make him move all the way around the world for two weeks of employment?"

He watches Cuddy carefully, noting the subtle way her expression changes: her eyes shift, her mouth thins in disapproval. So, House thinks. Some favor. "You're not firing him," Cuddy repeats, confirming his suspicions.

Which kind of birthday card was ideal for broaching the subject of a sexual relationship with your brother?

Can’t believe you’re going through with this.

‘Birthday - Boyfriend’ was a non-starter. Too forward.

Stupidest idea you’ve ever had.

‘Humorous’ would send the message that it was all a joke, but Dean’s racing pulse and the thin sheen of sweat covering his forehead that he couldn’t blame on the drug store’s fluorescent lights said this was as serious as a heart attack. Or maybe he was actually having a heart attack?

Too goddamn hot in here.

A card for children would add an extra layer of disgust that wouldn’t help his case, but the cards for adults were all boring platitudes, cringy jokes about back pain or saccharine poems on the passage of time.

Just pick something!

He needed something straightforward. Something unassuming. This whatever-it-was between them had always been conveyed subtly; a lingering graze of fingertips when one handed the other a flashlight, an imperceptible shift across a ripped pleather diner booth to get just a half inch closer. Someone in their earshot would say something about love or romance or sex and, on autopilot, Dean’s eyes would flick over to Sam, only to find Sam was already looking back. It simmered under his skin for as long as Dean could remember. And though he wanted to crank the burner to high, let everything boil over and burn the kitchen down too, he only had one shot at this. The thought of blowing it made him want to curl up and die.

Or don’t pick anything at all. Get back in the car and drive away.

So he stood there, gripped with analysis paralysis, half-convinced that if he just chose the right card, everything would turn out exactly like it did in his indulgent daydreams.

You’ve gotta be the dumbest son of a bitch on the planet if you really believe that.

The kind of daydreams he cooked up when he was alone in whatever piece of shit they were currently holed up in. Feet kicked up on a broken coffee table or milk crate. Knees splayed wide. His hand brushing lazily on heated skin. Filth spilling from his lips, cradled lovingly around Sam’s name.

He could picture it perfectly. Sam would open his card, shake his head and give him that stupid, wonderful, dimpled grin.

‘Thanks Dean,’ he’d say warmly. And they’d talk. They’d just talk. Dean hadn’t decided exactly what he was going to say. He didn’t want it to sound too rehearsed or pre-planned.

He’s obviously going to know you planned this, dipshit.

Maybe if he brought it up casually enough, he could slip it under the radar with little notice.

Yeah, great idea. ‘Cowboys are playing like garbage this year. By the way, Sammy, you ever thought about letting me blow you?’

He thought about saying something nearly every day. He wanted to whisper it across the narrow gap between their beds like a horrible sleepover secret. He wanted to spring it suddenly in the middle of a conversation and gauge Sam’s reaction. Decide in the moment if he should laugh it off or drive straight over a cliff. He wanted to answer honestly when he was melding into the couch, staring at the bottom of a bottle like it had all the answers and heard his brother murmur with a tinge of concern “What are you thinking about?”

‘Sticking my fingers in your mouth. What are you thinking about?’

He’d mentally played it out hundreds and hundreds of times without saying a word. But, he was certain — almost certain, barely unsure — that this time he’d be brave enough to say it. And maybe it would be fine.

Or he’ll tell you to get fucked and it’ll be just another shitty birthday. 18 in a row Sammy! Must be a world record.

His eyes flicked unconsciously to the enormous display of Mother’s Day cards farther down the aisle, surrounded by oversized boxes of chocolate and cheap bears with plasticky fur. His pulse quickened again. This time of year, every store became a minefield of unwanted reminders. Dean wrinkled his nose. He used to know what her perfume smelled like, but now he willed away the phantom scent of smoke and rot.

What would she think of you now?

He shook his head, dismissing that particular intrusive thought, not for the first time that day or even that hour.

This isn’t about her, he argued to no one. This isn’t about anybody but him and me.

Nothing ever was. From the moment that little bundle of blankets and brother was shoved into his arms, Sam became his entire world. Dean was his protector, his teacher, his caregiver. Barely a second of his life passed where he didn’t have some part of his brain focused on Sam.

Where is Sammy? Is he eating enough? Is he fitting in at his new school? Does he miss the one he left last week? Is he pissed off Dad left him behind again?

It was a lot to put on the shoulders of a four-year-old, but Dean always felt uniquely suited for his role of motherfatherbestfriend. He had a sole mission in life. Look out for Sammy. Take care of him. That always felt as natural as breathing.

Take care of him like walk him to school and keep the salt lines intact, asshole. Not take care of him like shove your hand in his jeans and kiss him until his lips bruise.

The doubt that gripped him now, seizing him with the urge to bolt from the store and forget the whole thing, was a near constant presence these days, especially since he’d hatched this harebrained scheme and talked himself into getting this far.

He shoved his misgivings back down and repeated the affirmations that made him feel mildly saner.

It’s not just you. It can’t just be you. You’re not blind and you’re not crazy.

For Christ's sake, he spent nearly every waking moment within arm’s reach of his brother. He raised the kid. He could read his mind.

You used to, but not anymore. He’s different now. He hates Dad. He hates you. He’s hiding things.

Dean resisted the urge to smack himself for that particularly painful thought. Didn’t want to draw any more attention to the grown man standing motionless staring at greeting cards for going on 10 minutes now. He shoved the thought to the back of his mind where it belonged and tried not to linger on the feeling that it was the only rational thing he’d told himself today.

It’s not too late. You can still turn back.

It was true. He could continue on with more of the same if he wanted to. He made it this far in life without doing anything. Maybe he could just keep going. Take it one day at a time like an addict.

He envisioned himself going down that route. Taking every thought that nauseated and exhilarated him, putting it in a lead-lined box and tucking it away in a secret corner of his mind, bricked off with a thick, sturdy wall of denial. He could be good, starting today.

First day of the rest of your life.

He could throw himself into hunts a little more recklessly. Shoot first. Think later. Start drinking whiskey with Dad and tell Sam where he could shove that piss poor attitude he’d been sporting these last few months. That’s what a good brother would do. Fuck his birthday.

He’d almost convinced himself to step away from the card display when his eyes finally landed on it. The image scratched at his brain in an oddly comforting way, a memory forming in dribs and drabs as he reached for the card and plucked it from the shelf.

He stared down at the staged photograph of a fluffy yellow pup with a paper birthday hat strapped to its head. Why did it look so familiar? They’d never owned a dog. Never even had a stray that hung around begging for scraps of food and friendship.

Never a dog like this anyway. Probably met a few junkyard mutts that were nothing but skin and—

“Bones,” he whispered, running his thumb over the dog’s glossy snout, the memory finally solidifying.

Sam, 11 years old, sprawled across the hardwood floor of the kitchenette. Pencils clacking together as he swapped between brown ochre, dark cadmium yellow and raw umber, trying to get the hue of the coat just right.

Dean, perched on the windowsill like a gargoyle, watching the sun go down on a gorgeous Indian summer. Plenty of kids outside, even in this part of town, running wild and carefree, soaking up one of the last good days before the inevitable chill.

But Sam was grounded, probably for a year at least after his little stunt, and Dean was right there beside him in self-imposed solitary confinement. Terrified of what could happen if he let Sam out of his sight again.

They worked in silence. Sam drawing and Dean watching. That wasn’t part of the punishment, but after the ordeal of the last few weeks, Dean’s nerves were too frayed to let him properly form words. His thoughts came in broad, ever-changing swaths of emotion. Betrayal. Fury. Relief. His limbs throbbed from the extra hours of PT he’d been put through, first by Dad as penalty, then by himself as penance.

Sam squinted up at the dying light in the window and huffed out a frustrated little sigh. Like he thought it was unfair. Like he didn’t understand what had been so wrong about tearing Dean’s chest open, shoving his grubby little hands inside the cavity and squeezing every organ until it ruptured.

A moment later, he stood and placed his sketch on the counter before wordlessly shuffling into the bathroom and slamming the door with the same level of force he’d used on every door across the last six states. The kid was starting to gain some muscle. Dean could see broken knobs and pissed off general managers in their very near future.

He waited until he heard the shower running before pushing himself off the windowsill and heading to the cabinet to grab the one dusty pot that lived inside. As he scrubbed it under barely tepid water, he scrutinized the drawing. A little stick boy with gangly limbs and dark hair, holding a bright yellow bag and tossing a golden ring at a golden dog. ‘Sam and Bones’ scrawled across the top in deep cobalt green.

That was the first appearance of Bones. For a while, Sam doodled him on the back of every receipt, diner placemat and motel notepad he could get his hands on. Dean never asked him about his fantasy dog. For one thing, he couldn’t utter a proper sentence to Sam besides ‘Wash up’, ‘Time for school’, or ‘Go to bed’ for weeks, and by then they were so far removed from the nightmare that he didn’t want to risk dragging up anything that reminded them of Arizona.

But they were almost seven years passed it now, and with a little flutter in his stomach, Dean wondered if Sam would be impressed that he remembered that particular dream of owning an energetic golden retriever who could chase frisbees around a lush, grassy yard.

The dog on the card was posed lying down with his paws outstretched. The forlorn expression in the dog’s eyes looked like the one he’d seen on Sam nearly every day since he began to understand who they were and what they did and why it couldn’t change.

The retriever’s gaze was fixed sidelong on a floor-smashed cake next to its head. Dean ran his fingers over the raised lettering. ‘Maybe this year has been ruff…’

He flipped open the card and smirked at the punchline. The previously heartbroken pooch was now on all fours, gleefully devouring every scrap of frosting his long tongue could reach. ‘But cake is cake. Happy birthday!’

It was so stupid. It was so cliche. It was so utterly and completely lame.

It was perfect.

His mind was quiet as he paid for the card and the scratch-off ticket and crossed the parking lot. He couldn’t keep the stupid grin off his face when he spread the card open on the roof of his car and scribbled ‘Happy birthday Sammy. Hope you get lucky.’ He affixed the scratcher to the inside of the card with a piece of electrical tape from the glove box and tossed his completed gift on the passenger’s seat.

As he drove, his thoughts turned to the contents of the trunk. Wedged in between the sawed-off and a Hawthorn stake was a cooler of cheap Buds and a moth-bitten blanket he’d stolen off a housekeeping cart last month. There was even a single cupcake that he’d bought for a staggering $3.75 at a vegan bakery across town.

With the free space in his head to think positive thoughts, he started to craft his pitch. He mentally set the scene in the high vantage point he’d scoped out last week. Maybe it used to be a lover’s lane back when this town had young, hopeful teens with an itch to scratch. There hadn’t been anyone there during Dean’s recent reconnaissance missions as he tried to figure out the best time of sunset to strike.

With the evening light just perfect in his mind’s eye, he imagined laying out the blanket, tossing Sam a beer that he’d catch one handed and casually passing him the card. His eyes, usually narrowed in concentration or petulance these days, would go child-like wide. ‘Oh wow!’ He’d say. ‘That looks just like-’

‘Bones. Your little dream dog that you drew over and over.’

‘You remember. I can’t believe you remember.’

‘Listen. I can’t promise things are gonna change overnight, but you’re an adult now. Dad is slowing down. I can tell. It’s getting harder for him to keep up with the job and I think he knows he’s had too many close calls. I think if we really prove ourselves, we might be able to convince him to stay with Uncle Bobby for a bit and let us strike out on our own. We could do it our way. Not just motels. Set up a home base somewhere. Maybe… get a dog.’

He mouthed the last few words in a silent rehearsal, lest he stumble and stutter and make a fool of himself. A homebase and a dog led to routine which led to normalcy which led to comfort which led to trust which led to everything else. A direct throughline to everything he’d ever wanted. “He’s gonna say yes,” Dean muttered to the card in the passenger seat.

Card-Bones met his gaze with those big melancholy eyes and he had to force himself to not second-guess, pull a U-turn and head back to the store. He hadn’t gotten a receipt.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Standing on the dilapidated, kudzu covered porch of the condemned farmhouse they were squatting in, Dean was greeted with the familiar sound of expletive and insult-laden raised voices from within. Didn’t seem like anything too out of the ordinary at first. However, it was the unmistakable high-pitched ring of a dish shattering that signaled this wasn’t a typical Wednesday night pissing contest.

With a reluctant sigh, he pushed open the warped, weather-worn door and marched straight into a warzone.

“- arrogant, self-obsessed asshole hellbent on destroying my life!”

“I’ve spent every waking minute of the last 18 years saving your life! And this is how you repay me? This is how you repay us?!”

“Oh! Thaaaank you for this wonderful existence, Dad,” Sam spat as he brought his hands together in a loud, exaggerated slow clap. “It’s been awesome living out of roach motels and never making friends.”

Dean softly closed the door behind him and felt a dull throb deep in his chest. He’d never felt bereft in the friendship department and the fact that Sam did was one of their more agonizing differences. He didn’t like to think about it.

Sam and their father stood on either side of a splintery kitchen table that was littered with dirty dishes, food-splattered Styrofoam containers and empty bottles. The casualty, a dinner plate stained with ketchup, was in pieces by the sink. Hard to tell who had started throwing things first, but if no one intervened they’d both be equally guilty of wrecking the place in a matter of minutes.

Dean took a few steps further into the room, futilely trying to break the spell of the donnybrook with his presence alone. But, as usual, Sam and Dad only had eyes for each other.

“We have a purpose, Sam! We make sacrifices to protect people. We fight what’s out there so no one has to suffer like she did.”

Dean could sense what was coming a split second before it happened. Mom was always Dad’s trump card. It was his bright, flashing “Press here to win the argument” button. But something was different tonight. Something about the way Sam was carrying himself. He had some extra ammo hidden away. Some alternate path he could take. “Yes sir” was no longer in the script.

He could sense it, but he couldn’t stop it.

“You know she would’ve left your pathetic, inebriated ass years ago, don’t you? I’m glad she didn’t live to see us up to our necks in this pile of shit you built for us."

That broke the dam. John Winchester grabbed an empty glass bottle off the table and sent it hurtling towards the door. Dean shifted a half inch backwards, just in time to see it whiz passed his head and explode against the knot-filled wall.

“Get the fuck out of this house,” he roared, pointing a thick finger at the only escape route. “Go if you’re so goddamn eager! And stay gone!”

Dean rolled his eyes, preparing himself for the usual post-fight pep talk. This wasn’t the first time Dad kicked Sam’s surly ass out and told him to come back when he’d put his head on straight.

We’ve come a long way since Flagstaff.

It threw a kink into his plans, but he figured he could, once again, soothe these emotional wounds and still get Sam in the car and out to the abandoned lover’s lane without missing too much of the sunset.

It wasn’t until Sam shoved passed him without a glance and Dean saw the bulky backpack he was shouldering that everything started to go up in smoke. This fight was pre-meditated.

The door slammed shut with Sam alone in the muggy spring air. “No son of mine,” John growled. “Abandon his fucking family.” Dean could hear his words, but they weren’t adding up. The metallic, bitter taste of panic filled his mouth and wheeled around to follow Sam out into the night.

He caught up at the bottom of the porch stairs, a hand clasping his brother’s broad shoulder. “Sammy, wait! What— “

“Go inside, Dean.” He sounded tired. Worlds removed from the bombastic performance he’d given inside, now he just seemed drained. He didn’t even turn around. “We can’t both— I mean, you have to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

“What the hell are you talking about? You know he doesn’t mean it. Sure, the stuff you said about Mom was a little—”

“I’m leaving,” Sam told the ground. “I got into Stanford. Full ride.”

The wall shattered in Dean’s brain. Every impure, depraved thought and impulse he tried to bury rushed forward.

Tell him tell him TELL HIM! You can’t leave. It’s you and me against the world, like always. I need you. I want you. I love you.

“What?”

Sam finally turned and slowly, despondently, forced himself to meet Dean’s eyes. “I. Am. Leaving. Tonight.” He enunciated every syllable as though that were the only way to get it through his brother’s thick skull. Maybe it was.

“What, now?! It’s a thousand miles away. You gonna walk?”

Sam shoved a hand into his pocket and pulled out a crumbled piece of paper with his name and a flight number on it. Dean had the wild urge to snatch it and set it aflame like he’d burned countless other objects imbued with pure evil.

“My roommate is a townie. He said I could spend the summer in his parents’ guest house. I knew as soon as Dad found out he’d— And if I leave now he can’t report me as a runaway since I’m— Since it’s my—...”

Of course. The very first decision Sam made as a full grown adult was to turn tail and abandon the person who raised him.

Dean swallowed what felt like a wad of broken glass as he cast his eyes towards his car. They still had a little time. Maybe on the drive to the airport he could make some compelling points. Maybe there was time to get a room at some roadside hole in the wall that reminded them of their childhood. He wasn’t above using this new development as leverage. One last night together where they could finally be honest about how desperately sick they were about one another. If it still didn’t work, Sam could always take a later flight.

“Well, get in,” He said quietly. “I just have to fill up and—”

“I called a cab. Right before I showed Dad the acceptance letter.”

Dean’s heart jumped into his throat. His vision swam and darkness was gathering much faster than anticipated. He’d read this all wrong. He had been reading it wrong for years. He really was a stupid son of a bitch. He thought this was some secret, silent burden the two of them had been shouldering together, locked in a stalemate and terrified of the consequences of giving an inch.

But it wasn’t. Dean was in this alone. Sam didn’t want him. Didn’t love him.

He never would have done this if he did.

“I just got home,” he murmured pitifully. “You weren’t even gonna say—...” He couldn’t get his mouth to form the word. It was locked up tight somewhere, inaccessible. He didn’t have use for that word with Sam.

Sam’s eyes were back on the ground and he was gnawing at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t confirm or deny. He didn’t have to.

Gleaming yellow headlights illuminated a tree at the end of the country road. Thirty seconds until the end of Dean’s life. It was do or die. Now or never. He had to say something or Sam would slip through his fingers like wet sand. The wall was already demolished. It would be easy. He just had to say something. Say anything!

He opened his mouth, finally ready to ruin both of their lives, when Sam closed the gap between them with an oddly familiar wounded animal expression warping his features. Not even a hint of those dimples. He crushed Dean in a hug, lanky arms snaking around his brother’s shoulders. They were the same height, but Sam tipped his head down slightly so his chin rested right in the crook of Dean’s neck.

It was the same comfort Sam sought when he was six and fell off a bike they “borrowed”, when he was 10 and a boy at school called him trailer trash, when he was 14 and Dean finally woke up from a three-day coma after a tussle with a nocnitsa.

Dean’s mind went blank as he tapped into his default state of protecting and calming Sam. His sole mission. He tilted his head a fraction of an inch, the edge of his bottom lip a hair’s breadth from Sam’s cheek. He heard a sharp inhale next to his ear. If he didn’t know any better, he could almost convince himself Sam was breathing him in, storing away his scent.

They were bathed in yellow light as the cab crawled to a stop. Dean’s fingernails dug half-moon imprints into his palms as he valiantly fought every instinct warring in his body and broke the hug first. Wordlessly, he pulled out his wallet and shoved several crumpled fifties into Sam’s hand.

“Dean, don’t. Keep your—”

Dean cut him off with nothing more than a heated glare.

They stood there for a beat, too much to say and nothing seeming important enough to cover it all. Maybe they could just stay in that moment forever and never have to face what came next.

The cab’s horn beeped, pulling them both out of a trance. Sam gave Dean a curt nod and sidled up to one of the rear doors. He was halfway in when he looked back up and offered a pathetic “I’ll call when I’m settled in.” Dean knew he wouldn’t, but he nodded. It didn’t matter.

The car door closed softly and Dean was left standing on the yellow, median lines as the taxi pulled away. He stared at the shaggy head of dark hair and half convinced himself that the person in the backseat glanced over his shoulder for one last look back, but it was probably just a trick of the moonlight.

“Happy birthday, Sammy,” he whispered into the darkness.

His birthday! Dean's pulse kicked up as he remembered the items in the car. He dashed to his passenger seat, threw open the door and grabbed the card. He only needed to take two steps into the cab’s lingering exhaust cloud to know that he was never going to catch up. The moment was gone. He met Card-Bones’ hangdog eyes and felt like he was going to be sick. It was the same dreary look Sam had fixed him with in the moment before their embrace.

Over the next eight hours, the beers in the cooler would be consumed (and regurgitated) at an embarrassing speed. It took the cupcake two months to rot into a goopy liquid that made him gag whenever he reached for a weapon and caught a whiff of it. The moth-bitten blanket served as a shroud for a possum he accidentally rammed going 40 over the speed limit in September. But the card he tossed immediately. He couldn’t stand the way those eyes looked into his soul. How they seemed to reflect every measure of a man Dean failed to live up to in his 22 years on this earth.

Dad was passed out at the table by the time Dean re-entered the farmhouse. He didn’t look down at Card-Bones as he ripped it into four tidy pieces and let them fall into the overflowing kitchen trash. It was only when he was at the threshold of the bedroom they had shared that he remembered the scratch-off ticket and the $200 he’d shoved into Sam’s palm. The car needed gas and they were almost out of painkillers.

It only took him a minute to fish the pieces out of the trash, assemble them back together and take a quarter to the colorful acrylic ink.

His legs hurt, the pants are kind of shredded, and Wayne's definitely gonna kill him. He was supposed to stay in the trailer park. Trick-or-treat there, because Wayne got thrown on the schedule at the plant, at the last minute. It happens. Eddie's used to it. He's good at taking care of himself. 

But tonight's Halloween. 

And Eddie doesn't want to trick-or-treat in the trailer park, because Eddie knows his neighbors. Knows what he'd get, and he didn't want a pillowcase full of peanut butter kisses and Sixlets.

Instead, he dreams of full size candy bars. Snickers and Hershey and Reeses. 

And Wayne drove him through Loch Nora, showing him the houses he planned to take him to, and Eddie's good at memorizing things he's seen before, so he had no problem getting back. Even if it took a long time. Even if his legs burned from riding uphill.

But he forgets that, the second the candy starts rolling in. And it is good stuff.

After leaning his bike against a tree in the yard, Eddie knocks on the door, remembers to say trick-or-treat, and is surprised to see another little boy standing there with an orange Tupperware bowl of full-size candy bars in his hands.

"Pick one," the boy says, and Eddie looks at all the choices, before taking one from the bowl. 

"Thank you," Eddie says, remembering to be polite. Before he had to work, Uncle Wayne had said they could come to the rich neighborhood, but that Eddie had to be good and polite if they did. Uncle Wayne might not be with him to see if he's polite or not, but he'll still try his best.

The other boy nods, and Eddie can't help asking, "Why aren't you out trick-or-treating?"

The boy shrugs, "My parents aren't home yet. So, I'm answering the door until they get here. And now my friends have already gone without me, anyway. It's okay."

"Oh," Eddie says, and it's not okay. Eddie would hate to miss trick-or-treating. He lingers on the step, then says, "Well, if your parents get home, you can go trick-or-treating with me, if you want to."

"Okay, yeah," the kid says, looking a little happier than he did when he answered the door.

"I'm Eddie," Eddie tells him.

"I'm Steve."

"Okay, Steve. I'll be back later."

"If you forget, that's okay, too," Steve says, and Eddie's not gonna forget. His memory is good.

"I won't forget. You got a costume?"

And Steve nods.

"Good. Get it on."

Steve nods again, and Eddie smiles. He can hit a few more houses, and then go back to see if Steve's ready to go get some candy. 

Eddie takes a long look at the house, memorizing where it sits, and pedals off towards the next house.

Twenty minutes later, Eddie returns, Steve comes out, and he's wearing a Donald Duck mask.

"My mom picked it," Steve says, pushing it up onto the top of his head, and Eddie decides not to make fun. At least Steve still has a mom to pick out his costumes, as stupid as he looks.

"They still aren't home," Steve says.

Eddie takes the bowl, and puts it on the porch, "Got a pen and paper?"

Sign made, they get on their bikes and take off down the bustling street, looking for their first house.

House after house, they run around the whole neighborhood. Steve gives him tips on houses he might have missed otherwise without his inside info.

"Do it," Eddie urges as he pushes the bell and Steve giggles.

The door opens, and Eddie nudges Steve.

"Trick-or-treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat," they both sing-song, and the lady behind the door laughs. Eddie can't believe he got Steve to do it.

"Oh, Steven," she says, but gives them both a big handful of candy.

They both say thank you, and Eddie's having fun. Steve's a year younger than he is, so that's why he's never seen him before at school, but he's tall. Taller than Eddie. 

Eddie's pillowcase is getting heavy and a little hard to handle.

When Steve says he's gotten enough, Eddie happily throws in the towel, too.

Back at Steve's house, they lay on the floor of the huge living room on their bellies, spreading all their candy out, ready to make trades. Steve's parents still haven't come home, and Eddie wonders if they just work late sometimes like Wayne. 

Eddie needs to go.

"Maybe we should ask the neighbor next door to drive you home," Steve says, "it's pretty late."

"I'll be okay," Eddie says, but he does worry about all that candy weighing him down.

Steve follows him to the door, "Thanks for going with me."

Eddie just nods, "Find me at recess. We'll hang out."

And Steve grins, and Eddie really hopes he does.

Steve walks him to his bike, and the streets are pretty empty, trick-or-treating over for another year. Maybe next year Eddie can come back here and do it with Steve again. 

There's one set of headlights, and Steve holds Eddie back at the end of the driveway. It slows as soon as the headlights catch sight of them.

It's a woman, and she rolls down the window, asking kindly, "Steve. It's a little late to be on your bikes, isn't it?"

Steve isn't even on a bike, Eddie thinks. 

"Hi, Nurse Claudia," Steve says, then looks at Eddie. "Um, I know. We lost track of time. This is Eddie. He's just going to ride home."

"Do you live around here, Eddie?" she asks.

And Eddie shakes his head. 

"Can I give you a ride home, then?" she asks, and Eddie really doesn't want to get in with a stranger all by himself. He looks in the backseat and she does have a little kid in a car seat, dressed as a pumpkin.

"Nurse Claudia used to work at the school, before she had a baby," Steve offers, and Eddie nods. That's probably okay, then. It was a long way from the trailer park to here, and now it's dark and cold.

A ride wouldn't be so bad.

"Okay. Thank you," Eddie says, and Steve helps him load his bike into the back hatch of her car, the little kid sound asleep in the backseat, plastic pumpkin clutched in his fist.

Eddie crawls into the front seat, and waves at Steve as they pull away.

"So, Eddie, where do you live?" Nurse Claudia asks.

"Forest Hills Trailer Park," Eddie answers.

"Dustin and I will be happy to take you home. That's a long way, huh?"

If you want to write your own, or see more entries, check out @corrodedcoffinfest to read takes on all the Seven Deadly Sins, or to offer up your own!

For more Spooktober, pop on over to @steddie-spooktober to follow along with the fun!

Notes: I fucking love peanut butter kisses, Eddie, and I will not stand for this slander of them. The molasses taffy? The dry, crumbly peanut butter inside? Sign me up. (They were discontinued a few years ago, and I haven't seen any knockoffs of them locally.)

Want to see what costumes looked like in 1975? Enter at your own risk. (See: Donald Duck, top row, second from the right.)

And I was a door answering kid on Halloween. Though, for me, unlike for Steve, it was by choice. I liked to answer the door and hand out treat bags that I put together with my mom. It's still my favorite holiday.