Oh, God.

Sure, you'd heard Ghostface had rolled into the town next door, just a week ago. Halloween special, the news had called it. The whole town's been on lockdown; but those film buff nerds had been convinced it was safe. That they never hit twice in a fortnight, based on the 'patterns' and the 'lore' and all the dumb loser shit you didn't have the patience for. But, still. A party's a party— and if Tommy at the back of the class was convinced it was safe, high-schoolers love an excuse to break curfew.

You should've known better. Though, you'd never thought it'd happen to you.

"C'mon, sweetheart. Turn around. Promise we ain't no peepin' Toms." Dean sing-songs into the voice modulator, out-of-sight. It's an old, nice piece of gear their Daddy gave them. Same with the knives, and the lovely old revolver; the Colt, he called it. A freakin' beaut, that one. They only ever used it for their favourites—the ones who put up a real good fight. Apparently John had snagged it from the guy that had donned the Ghostface mantle before him. Poor Samuel— John had always gotten real nasty with it.

Dean was always dedicated to the craft of it; Dad had been so damn ecstatic, how quick his oldest boy had picked it up. Sam had almost got away from them— but it's something inescapable, ain't it? John made sure, early on, that Sam couldn't damn well put that mask down—lest he be locked-up in Alcatraz and leave his pretty boy older brother all alone.

Even with John dead in a ditch, courtesy of said older brother; Dean does a well enough job keeping Sam on the game. Will, probably, for the rest of their little lives. Ain't nobody snatching those masks from him.

The Winchester family business, everyone. A non-profit organisation—all proceeds go right into Dean Winchester's mouth and Sam Winchester's long-lorn

"Shut up. Thought this was an in 'n out job. Easy kills. 'Get your blood pumping." Sam grumbles, as if you're not scrambled back against the bathtub, praying to all the gods you've ever heard of. His voice is muffled through his mask. Damn, why does Dean get the voice mod? The guy sounds like he takes gravel with his coffee already, all those fuckin' smokes.

"It will be in-and-out, believe me" Dean's voice crackles, gruff laughter sounding from behind the door. Your blood dries up.

Sam only grunts, not feeling it tonight. He's taller than tall, imposing as all hell as he ducks his cloaked head to squeeze through the bathroom door. A sheepish smile beneath the costume as he steps over the literally faceless jock, lying in a pool the same colour as his letterman.

Dean groans, and reappears at the corridor. Just like that, a second Ghostface pops up, mask clattering to the floor. The shower curtain is yanked aside, and Dean's eyes land on you, sparkling through his lashes.

Chapped, full lips uptick, wicked. "Oh, c'mon, Sammy." He slaps his arm around his brother's shoulder, on his tippy-toes to reach. "Can't we have a little fun?"

Dean and Sam have a pretty good system with their victims. It's pretty simple: Dean is the talker, a charmer to the core—he'll get the victim to go with the flow as easy as can be. Sam's the bad cop, in a sense. More the action guy; but he likes to watch as his brother works his magic. You see, it's a team effort. You get the fun from both sides, and it goes much quicker that way.

And, the fun's just about to begin.