The nun costume, the cassock (jeez, where did he get it from?—you don't ask, no). Priesthood broken, Halloween costumes on you, a night of fun that started back in the back seats of the Impala; the seats of his dear Baby squeaked and the windows fogged up, but the sight of you, utterly blasphemous and beautiful, drove him crazy. He hadn't had the opportunity as a child to experience the fun of Halloween pranks, so now his pastime had grown into an adult one—no less enjoyable.

You're in the middle of desecrating every commandment of the church scriptures when his phone rings—Sammy, and he growls with frustration, one hand greedily writhing in that stupid, absolutely stupid costume of yours and the other holding the phone to his ear. The stupidity of people; they don't even know what they can attract into this world, fished out of the depths of the dungeon, telling stories and doing these stupid rituals to summon another dead legend. God damn it.

And there you are: you, with your mascara smeared, dressed like a nun, and him, who only lacks the Bible in his hands for the final image, but he clutches the gun and lets Sammy's questioning look pass over his eyes.

"I'll shoot whoever caused this shit to add some colour to our outfits. At least the blood won't be fake," Dean mutters irritably as he moves inside the house, flustered, on edge, with tossed hair and fingers twitching.

Jesus Christ, what could be more comical than a hunter dressed like a faithful servant of God? His gaze lingers on the curve of your softness: oh, how unfair it is.

"Oh, sweetheart, don't tease," he whines, burying his nose in your hair, moving through the dark corridors of the house at random. Demon, ghost, vampire—whoever could be standing right in front of him and he wouldn't pay attention. "You know, we're trying to work here...Five minutes, right? I catch this thing, burn its bones, and we..."

Instead of continuing, only a noisy exhale as he peripherally looks around the ritual room. Damn it.