TDM - OCTOBER 2020

[robbies]

TEST DRIVE MEME - OCTOBER 2020

Everyone's entitled to one good scare.
CW: Violence, death, mouth trauma, vomiting, needles, razors

---

“Help me. Please, help me…”

A child’s voice, calling out for aid. There’s no rhyme or reason for when it comes to you. It’s so quiet, a whisper in the deepest, darkest corners of your mind. Were it not for the sharp, stabbing pain it pulls out of you, you could ignore it. You could even pretend it’s just your imagination.

It all happens so quickly and powerfully. Left in the dust, your brain struggles to process it all. Blacking out is the least it can do, but it’s also all it can do, and it does so before you even have a chance to fully register just how young the voice is, and how deeply, heartbreakingly lost it sounds.

When you finally awaken with your bare feet tangled in soft sheets, a layer of fuzzy fleece or slinky silk clinging to your body like another layer of skin, the sunlight pouring in from the window next to your bed momentarily blinding you, and the cries of happy children playing baseball outside of it carrying faintly, it all becomes very clear—

Something is horribly wrong.

---

OCTOBER 1st.

It becomes very clear very quickly that this isn’t a simple kidnapping. If you’re twenty years old or older, the bedroom you wake up in is very clearly a couple’s bedroom — with separate beds like a modest, modern couple of course! A similarly lost and confused stranger is in the other. They are your counterpart, for everything in this room has a matching counterpart — the nightstand and lamp each of you have beside your beds, the framed pictures on the wall, even your pajamas. If you’re under twenty years old, your room is smaller but more personalized, filled with comic books, model kits, stray baseball cards littered around the floor. Dolls, fashion magazines of people dressed from a bygone era, stacks of vinyl records neatly arranged next to a record player. And then there are the pictures. They’re everywhere in the house — in a frame on your nightstand, hung on the walls, stuck in the photo albums and scrapbooks lying on your desk or tucked away in drawers. Here you are on your wedding day, exchanging vows with your partner. Here’s you sitting in a fishing boat with one of the younger members of your house. Here’s a picture of you at ten years old getting ready for the first day of school. All of the photographs are aged, sepia, even yellowed and dusty in frames hung for a long, long time. By the time you make it down to the living room, you’ll notice that the television is on; someone must have forgotten to turn it off before they went to bed. On it, a cartoon pack of cigarettes and accompanying cigarette dancers prance around a black and white pumpkin patch, joined by dancing skeletons, ghosts and witches as a cheerful little earworm blares: ”Thirty days til Halloween, Halloween, Halloween, thirty days til Halloween—“

---

GETTING TO KNOW THE NEIGHBORS.

As you get acclimated, you gradually begin to learn more about this strange new world you’ve found yourself in. You’re in a neighborhood on the east side of a town called Santa Rosita located… somewhere in California (wherever or whatever that might be). The year is 1961. If it wasn’t clear enough, your neighbors are more than willing to humor you if you ask. Even if you accost them with questions and demands. Sure, you and your family are a little kooky, and you have a very overactive imagination, but the key to any good joke is playing along! And how could something like “I’m from the future, from another world” be anything but a joke? A. AUNT MYRNA'S PARTY CHEESE SALAD. Over the course of the week, your neighbors will come by unannounced, each with a new homecooked meal to welcome you to their cozy little side of town. Meatloaf, potato salad, lamb chops. Gelatin molds — lots of gelatin molds. Someone even comes by to drop off a gelatinous yellow lump of pineapple, green peppers, celery and yellow cheese swimming in a soupy mixture of sour and whipped cream. “It’s my aunt Myrna’s recipe!” they gush once they drop the casserole tin into your hands, proceeding to rattle off every ingredient. Well, at least you won’t be starving anytime soon. When you bring it back in to your kitchen - and its cheery wallpaper and its floral patterned Pyrex dishware, you and your new...family(?) all stare at the cheese salad, the gelatin, the curiously frosted meatloaf spread. A smorgasbord courtesy of the insistent generosity! Who will take the first bite?

B. DON'T BE A SQUARE!

You can only avoid the cheer and the neighbors for so long, even as you sit inside enjoying all the amenities of your new home. The television can only turn its volume up to five, after all! One bright and sunny Saturday, the weather crisp and clear, news broadcasts and reruns of The Ed Sullivan Show are drowned out by the music in the neighborhood. Eventually it’s too much to bear — you simply must put on your shoes and go discover the source of that infernal racket.

Why, it’s the block party! Haven’t you seen the invitation — with instructions — sitting in your mailbox, silly? Wear a badge so everyone on the block can know you’re new and welcome you to their extended family!

Well! Each neighbor was supposed to set up a table with snacks and drinks and entertainment on their front lawn. Carter Mayhew, one of your Robbie neighbors, has a whole ring toss obstacle course set up for boys to play with, and his wife is cheerfully and blandly instructing a group of girls on jump rope rhymes. Colorful streamers hang from every lamppost and mailbox, balloons and party favors galore. Like you, there are even a few newcomers to Santa Rosita that are caught just as unaware of this event — though others are being welcomed in by husbands and wives and children, caught in conversations about building decks and the upcoming Halloween festivities.

Before you can decide if returning home or joining the party is your choice, a plate with chips and dips and yes, more gelatin is shoved into your hands and a party hat snapped on to your head.

“The guest of honor has arrived! Come and meet your neighbors, neighbor!”

---

THROUGHOUT OCTOBER.

Life falls into a peaceful haze for the next several days. Dull, unassuming, tranquil. As the month drags on, the spirit of Halloween begins to manifest in Santa Rosita, from the pumpkins people start putting out on their doorsteps to the smiling faces of paper skeletons pressed against their windows. And then, towards the end of the month, something terrible happens. You hear it first through word of mouth, rippling through Santa Rosita like a wave, dark murmurs accompanied by sad sighs and downturned eyes. Soon, you start to read about it. Grim business, they say. A tragedy. How could something like this happen. People stop talking about it by the end of the week. Best just to forget about it. Every day, that cigarette commercial comes on. It’s impossible to escape it. And every day, the number of days in the song changes, counting down. ”Thirteen days till Halloween—” “Eight more days til Halloween—” “Three more days til Halloween, Halloween, Halloween…”

---

HALLOWEEN.

CW: Violence, death, mouth trauma, vomiting, needles, razors

October 31st. It sneaks up on you whether you like it or not. When dawn breaks on Halloween day, things are as serene as they’ve ever been as men do yard work, raking leaves as their wives bake fresh pie and cookies in the house, the spicy scent of cinnamon, apple and pumpkin wafting through the neighborhood on chilly October wind. There’s a smile on every child’s face as they skip off the school bus in the afternoon, running into their houses to get their costumes ready. As it begins to get dark, the residents of Santa Rosita start lighting their jack-o-lanterns. One by one, little balls of light flicker to life on every porch and doorstep, jagged smiles grinning in the dark. For the entire night, nobody blows the candle inside their pumpkins out. It’s a tradition, a very old one, and traditions are just another way of saying rules. And Halloween in Santa Rosita, as it turns out, lives and dies by the rules.

A. ALWAYS CHECK YOUR CANDY.

Halloween isn’t just for the kids, although they certainly make up the bulk of who you’ll see out and about on the streets. Walking through Santa Rosita, your neighbors are as generous with handing out treats as they are with handing out gelatin molds and pot roasts, and they don’t discriminate. Adults are received just as warmly as children; the worst one can expect is a quirked eyebrow if they show up to a house without a costume.

Apples, packs of gum, homemade cookies. Chocolate bars, nickels, popcorn balls. Your neighbors hand out all sorts of treats, most of them homemade. The Robbies are no exception, and it’s their treats that seem a bit more high quality than most, some of the candy they hand out being obviously expensive, brand names. The good stuff. They drop each treat into your bag with those same pleasant, mild expressions and too-tight smiles you’ve grown used to in your short time here.

Eventually, as everyone winds up doing at some point in the night, you decide to start digging into your treat bag to sample some of your well-earned goods — maybe in the comfort of your home, maybe outside on the streets. And that’s when the fun begins.

Maybe you bite into metal, the razor sharp end of a blade embedded into the apple or candy bar you’ve picked out burying itself in your gums, or splitting your tongue. Maybe it’s a needle, impaling itself straight through the roof of your mouth or a cheek. Or maybe it’s nothing that obvious. Maybe the realization that something is wrong comes moments after you’ve devoured that chocolate bar or cookie, the bitter aftertaste of rat poison hitting the back of your throat along with bile and the rest of the contents of your stomach as they rise up and out of your mouth.

Or maybe you’ll bite into plain, sweet chocolate or fresh fruit. That’s also part of the surprise. You really don’t know what you’ll get until you start eating.

B. ALWAYS RESPECT THE DEAD.

At ten o’clock, all the television sets in the neighborhood turn on, blaring to life right in the middle of that omnipresent cigarette commercial. The volume begins to rise of its own accord as your television starts to pick up interference, bursts of static squealing amidst the rising, screaming chorus of ”HAPPY HAPPY HALLOWEEN, HALLOWEEN, HALLOWEEN!”

Breaking through the static, garbled and tinny, a child’s voice cries out.

“Can’t— I can’t hold them— back— Pumpkin— don’t blow the— out—”

And just as quickly as it cut in, the voice cuts back out. Commercial jingle notwithstanding, you’re alone once more. But not for long.

The doorbell rings. You can see them outside from your window: costumed children. Their masks and clothes are grimy and ragged from the muddy, slimy water they’ve been decomposing in for over a week. When they come to your door, squelching wetly as they shamble up the porch steps, they ring the bell or knock, as all polite children do. If you don’t let them in, they’ll find their own way, always by force. And once they find you, all they can gurgle in their reedy, waterlogged voices is, ”Trick or treat.”

From there, they attack.

With superhuman strength and speed, they tear and rip at anything they can get their hands on — clothing, skin, muscle, face, eyes. Being short and small, despite their strength, they're at a distinct disadvantage. They can even be thrown off, with some effort. But they don’t stay down for long, and attempting to hurt or mortally wound them only stalls them for a few moments, if that. How can you kill something that’s already dead?

Some in the neighborhood are willing to try and find out.

The only houses they seem to ignore completely are the ones with lit jack-o-lanterns still outside. They’ll loiter outside these houses, staring straight ahead at your door or window like they can see exactly where you are. But sooner or later, they’ll pass by and move onto the next house.

As long as the candles in carved pumpkins stay lit.

---

OOC INFO

Hello, and welcome to We're Still Here's first TDM! Here's a few things we'd like you to keep in mind:

The TDM is canon. You can treat this as the game's first real event and pick and choose what threads you would like your character to remember when they enter the game. For characters who app into the game, the events of the TDM will be treated like a dream. Upon awakening from it, characters will find that time has jumped ahead to December 1st. You may also feel free to use similar reality and/or time distortions to explain why the family members your characters have in the TDM aren't the same as the ones they may be assigned to in the game proper.

If you would like to have Halloween content in your relaxed housing prompts, please feel free! You are not beholden to follow our prompts exactly so long as the spirit is maintained.

There is no Network prompt listed, but feel free to wildcard one for your characters anyway.

Although the TDM is canon in the sense that characters are free to remember its events when they app into the game, it does not count as an official plot heavy event, meaning that characters will not receive regains from participating in it.

With regards to the dead trick-or-treaters: you may NPC them however you'd like, but keep the details we've listed in their prompt in mind. They are supernaturally fast and strong, will ignore houses as long as they have a lit pumpkin on the porch outside, and will try to enter each house the moment the candle in the pumpkin goes out. Additionally, they can't be killed, but they can be momentarily stalled by injuring them. By November 1st, 6AM, they will disappear the moment the sun comes out.

---

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Comments

ᴅᴇᴀɴ ᴡɪɴᴄʜᴇsᴛᴇʀ → sᴜᴘᴇʀɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴀʟ

[righteously]

mi casa es

[ Dean Winchester wakes up careful, but he does not wake up easy. There's an undeniable measure of wariness in his posture, in his eyes, in the silent steps he takes as he navigates through an unfamiliar house. The bed across the room, be it empty or housing a sleeping body, will get a long and scrutinizing look before he creeps away toward the hall. A framed photo of himself catches his attention; grey and tan and white, smiling wider than he has in years, standing with his arm thrown around somebody that distinctly is not his brother. What ultimately pauses his Stealthy Sleuthy Creeping is the jingle playing out on the world's oldest television. His voice comes out in an incredulous whisper. ]

What the hell?

[ Whatever the case, it breaks his silence and therefor all his effort at moving around undetected. After that, anything's fair game. Photo albums get ripped off of shelves and flung open for a hasty and unthorough look at photographs of himself with people he doesn't recognize. Vinyl records get pulled out, scoffed at, and then flung over his shoulder with the air of a man too good for whatever it was he just read.

This distrust and bad attitude will linger for the first several days. You can find him poring over books, photos, any material he can find look for a clue or a discrepancy, looking for anything. Subtly and oh-so-charmingly grilling the neighbors when they come by to drop off food, which he... actually does eat with some amount of gusto for the first couple of days.

Until the gelatin molds. Until the god damn molds. After that his smile becomes strained, shifts to disgust as soon as the door slams shut in Whoever McSally's face, and he flings it onto the dining room table without a speck of care. ]

I swear to friggin' god if I get one more Jell-O mold I'm gonna shoot myself in the face. This is freaking disgusting. Who the hell puts-- is that sour cream? Is that sour cream in a Jell-O mold? That's it, I'm killing everyone. Just. Everyone.

sweet tooth

[ As the days and weeks pass, Dean's attitude calms down to something reasonable — most of the time. He's still relentless in his pursuit of answers, but he does it in an almost impressively charismatic way. He slips in like a chameleon to talk shop with the neighbors, nice hedges Ron. How's that deck coming, Steve? You seen any of those racoons out by the garbage cans? Little rascals. Mixed into the perfectly pleasant conversation are gauging questions about the town. You hear about that bus crash? What was the deal with that guy? Anybody that you can think of he's got beef with? Who's the mayor? Say, you wouldn't happen to know where I can find some town records?

He's even festive on Halloween itself, because ya boi has an unrepentant sweet tooth. Costumeless but also shameless, he strolls on up to a door with a couple trick-or--treaters. Holds out his hand with a beaming smile, accepts his candy bar, and strolls away already ripping the thing open to take a bite.

He makes it all the way to the sidewalk before cursing loudly, freezing, and reaching slowly in to pull a freaking razor blade out of his gums. Blood spreads between his teeth, spills over his lip, and he stares at it in uncomprehending disbelief.

And then rage.

Watch a grown man fling a razor blade and a candy bar onto the ground, then storm right on back up to that house to start pounding on the door. ]

Open up you son of a bitch! What the hell's your problem? So help me god if you don't open this friggin' door—

not today satan

[ He knows what's up as soon as the static on that television starts rising. It brings him a long beat of pause, and then as soon as he gets his shit together he starts tearing open cabinets, flinging cans and spices and boxes of flour out onto the floor in a desperate search for a tube of salt. Thin lines go down in front of the front door, the back door, the windows, anywhere with an opening — he's only part way through the biggest living room window when the knock comes. It freezes him in his tracks, tube still in his hand, unmoving. If anyone's around, they're getting a sharply barked, authoritative: ]

Don't answer it!

[ Salt's abandoned in favor of snatching up the nearby fireplace poker like a bat, and then he creeps around to subtly nudge the curtain enough to see through the gap.

"Trick or treat."

Except their clothes are sopping wet and ragged, falling apart, and their voices — Dean calls out with his back pressed against the wall. ]

We're all out!

[ Not dissuaded, the knocking becomes a pounding. Polite voices become demanding, a cacophony of chanting "Trick or treat," and he sighs quick like he's gearing up for something. ]

Well, it was worth a shot.

[ And then they break through the window. So begins Dean's clearly well-practiced unapologetic technique, bashing in tiny little skulls with the fireplace poker until they overrun the house. He goes staggering across the lawn, searching out patterns, trying to figure out why the hell some houses are getting tagged and others aren't. Along the way, he'll swoop in and whack the heads of any kids attacking civilians. ]

wild card

[ come at me with anything, I love to improvise. hit me up with questions at rifting ]

mi casa es (su casa)

[ctn_0452_9]

You'd get overrun in five minutes. Too many of them and only one of you.

[Said without a hint of reproach or remorse as Cortana pushes the mold aside from where it slid into her notepad on the table. The contents wiggle in a very non-appetizing manner, but at least it seems...nominally edible. Mostly. She pushes it a little further aside and scrunches up her nose. Yeah, no thanks, she's sticking to the canned goods in the pantry for a while longer.]

I'd prefer military rations myself. At least you know what's in those.

[righteously]

[ Dean's scorn doesn't falter, he's committed to the notion of mass homicide. ]

Yeah, no kidding.

[ An absent mutter of agreement, before he leans over toward the kitchen counter to pluck up a spatula. Like he's expecting fire ants to burst forth, he tentatively pokes the side of it.

It wobbles threateningly, asserting dominance. ]

I'm gonna stick somebody's head in a jell-o mold and drop it off at their house. Then we'll freaking see.

[ctn_0452_9]

[The most dominant of all the jello salads in the world. Cortana sits back with an amused snort, fingers idly tapping at the table. The slight vibrations are enough to make the hell jello ripple faintly, a threat display if there ever was one. It takes all she has not to laugh.]

I don't know about that. They'd probably see it as you being neighborly and returning the favor. [A cheeky smile spreads across her face.] And then they'd start bringing these over all over again. We'd be eating them for the rest of our lives here.

[Do you really want that, Dean? She didn't realize you were so good at taking one for the team!]

[righteously]

[ In a display of purely adult, high-functioning maturity, Dean starts slapping the top of the mold with the flat of the spatula. It makes a satisfying slapping noise, just enough surface tension to keep it breaking through while still making the whole thing shake chaotically.

--for the rest of our lives.

He pauses, then points the spatula at her accusingly. ]

You shut your mouth, don't you dare jinx that evil on us. I can't live like this. I need something deep friend and dipped in ranch.

sweet tooth

[shalamayne]

[ Anduin is only passing by when he watches another person getting ready to dig in to the candy bar they just received and he also watches in horror as he watches blood suddenly spill from the other's mouth. It happens so quickly and it takes the young man a moment to correlate the razor blade promptly pulled out of the man's mouth with the candy bar.

The priest forgets in the haste of the moment that he doesn't have his healing spells here, rushing forwards as Dean goes to bang a fist on the door.]

Excuse me but maybe you should get that looked at first —

[righteously]

[ The aggressive guy who probably seems like nothing but broad shoulders and a bone to pick from behind doesn't seem particularly swayed by the notion. ]

Oh, trust me, somebody's gonna be looking at it --

[ Snarled out, followed by one furious bang on the door to punctuate his point. ]

mi casa es

[chromiums]

Would you shut up?

[ it's hissed through her teeth as lorna glares back at dean before she turns her attention back to the retreating neighbors (who, fortunately, don't seem to have heard his outburst). a slow breath is exhaled with a measured amount of relief once she's sure they've gone, and she turns her glare back to him in full force, stalking up to him. ]

We don't have to eat it. [ she's certainly not about to. ] But people are bound to talk if we don't accept it with a smile.

[righteously]

[ Alas and forsooth, this one is the obstinate Winchester whose body is fueled by whiskey, porn, and spite. ]

Then LET 'EM TALK!

[ That last part said not to her, but rather Dean wheeling around to shout it angrily at the door. ]

They can come right over and see what puts a smile on my face, I'm begging them.

let me know if this is out of line!

[chromiums]

[ lorna's eyes widen before they narrow and sharpen, and she puts her hands on his chest, urging him away from the door. the offending neighbors are probably well out of earshot at this point, but all they have around here are neighbors and she doesn't want to give them reason to call the cops. ]

You wanna pick a fight over a freaking Jell-O mold and get yourself hauled to some institution before we can figure anything out about this place, be my guest, but I am not getting dragged down with you.

go nuts, my dude

[righteously]

[ Dean's not a small man -- six foot one, one eighty of sheer purgatory refined muscle that only goes because -- well, he's an asshole, but he's not the brand of asshole that tries to flex on 'em when they're not the cause of his anger.

He wheels away from the door with a petulant huff of frustration, headed instead toward the kitchen to slam his way through cabinets until he finds the booze. ]

Then shred the marriage certificate and get a good lawyer, sweetheart, because I'm gonna end up shooting someone before the week's out.

mi casa es

[oldmanfive]

[ Five stands in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in hand, because he'll be damned if he is eating anything those weirdo people bring to them. When Dean walks in and practically throws the Jell-O mold he is holding onto the table, even Five has to grimace because that shit is gross.

He spent over forty years in a post apocalyptic wasteland and even he can't stomach the idea of placing food inside of fucking Jell-o. God why was that even a fucking thing? Eww.]

Why don't you try shooting them in the face when they are handing you those stupid things?

[ Yep, he is sticking to coffee, fuck the Stepford wives and husbands who try to tell him that caffeine will stunt his growth. ]

the cr i didn't know i needed

[righteously]

[ ah yes, one of the things he's gotten used to -- not by choice. An aggressive, dimpled curmudgeon with an amount of crankiness so massive Dean almost has to respect it. Dean doesn't have kids (not acknowledging the absolute nightmare around all things Lisa), but for getting one randomly assigned to him? You know what, they didn't miss the mark by much. Flatly: ]

Too many hand not enough gun.

[ By which he means they were both occupied by a plater of jiggling bullshit too quickly. As though to prove the point he reaches into the waistband of his jeans to pull out a handgun -- quaint little town it may be, they sell guns at the sporting goods store. First purchase he made. He clicks off the safety and eyes the floating cheese disdainfully, finger on the trigger, clearly very much considering shooting it.

He debates within himself two or three long seconds, but ultimately huffs and lowers his piece. ]

Waste of freakin' bullets.

[ Shooting that won't help any more than shooting their neighbor in the face. Short catharsis, long jail sentence. They probably serve trays full of gelatin mold. ]

<3!

[oldmanfive]

[ As much as Five would love to snap the necks of many of their neighbors, he gets where Dean is coming from. They still don't have any answers as to why they are here and what brought them here in the first place. Granted at least, Dean isn't actually trying to parent him, because that would only end in pain. So there is that saving grace. ]

Don't these people get tired of shoving food at us? I've heard of being neighborly but this is just insane. No one needs this much shit.

[ He can't help but gesture at the other molds and previous dishes that are left over the place. There's only four people in the house. Why would they ever need to eat this freaking much? Five watches as Dean looks like he might actually shoot the offending jell-o mold before thinking better of it. Five just wants to toss it all in the trash and not deal with it at all. He's fine surviving on coffee and peanut butter sandwiches at this point.]

Well at least you got a gun.

[ Five can't even get one since his body is technically under age. Not that he needs a gun to be deadly, he has killed people with pencils and butter knifes. But a gun would offer a little more comfort, at least it would be something familiar. ]

[righteously]

[ By the time he was Five's age-- physically, anyway -- he was already sneaking liquor and shooting monsters. Who the hell is he to police the kid? Or... whatever the hell he is, he still needs to get that story sometime when he's not. You know. Murdering jello molds.

Five talks, Dean walks, strolling too casually into the kitchen to get a meat tenderizing mallet. He holds it up for inspection, gives it a slow appraising whirl, and once he deems it suitable, strolls right on back over to bring it down onto their latest work of gelatin art.

It splatters satisfyingly through the thing, hits the plate beneath it with a crack not terribly unlike a gunshot in and of itself, and breaks the plate into three or four porcelain chunks. ]

Sorry, sport. They catch you packin' and they're gonna come beating down my door with... I don't know, Officer Betsy from Pleasantville social services.

[ Spoken casually, as if he didn't just crack their kitchen table. ]

I got better things to do with my life.

sweet tooth

[whitesanta]

[Aoi doesn't really enjoy sitting around handing trick-or-treaters candy, but, well, he doesn't exactly hate it either. And if he's going to be stuck here for the time being, might as well get into the spirit a little, right?

That's what he's thinking when he opens the door to hand some kids some candy and watches as the guy who had been at his house a few minutes ago (without so much as a mask, Aoi respects the hustle) storm up to his next door neighbor and start banging hard on the door, yelling fit to wake the dead.

Interesting.

He leaves the candy bowl behind for the little gremlins to pounce on and sneaks over to the hedge dividing his yard from the neighbor's, watching over the top like a character from a television show yet to air in Santa Rosita.

He hopes there are some fireworks.]

[righteously]

[ No amount of pounding on the guy's door seems to encourage him to open up, one can only wonder why. Surely a stranger threatening to kick their teeth in would warrant the opening of their heart and home.

He gives up after a minute or two, fuming, considering going back to his house to get either his fire poker or his gun or both.

Then notices his audience.

Grumpy, and with an unsettling amount of blood in his teeth: ]

Take a picture, it'll last longer.

[whitesanta]

[That is really... an impressive amount of blood.]

Just seeing what all the commotion was about, neighbor. [He says the last part with noticeable contempt.] You were really slamming on the door.

[He's guessing the blood and the slamming are connected.]

[righteously]

I'm having a civil dispute with my dentist.

[ Has anyone ever been more sarcastic than Dean Winchester is in this moment? It's hard to say, surely he's one of the universe's top contenders.

His mouth tastes like copper, it's staining his lips, and he bends a little at the waist to spit out a nice swath of blood. Mm, gross. Great manners. ]

Word of advice? Don't eat candy from Mr. Johnson here unless you hate owning gums.

sweet tooth

[handycapable]

What the Hell is your problem?

[ Ray, opening his window to see what the commotion next door is, only catches the tail end of this whole fiasco, so to him it just looks like a grown man is knocking on someone's door because-- why? It's Halloween? His eyebrow is arched a little judgmentally, a cigarette perched jauntily between two fingers. ]

Aren't you a little old to be trick-or-treating? You could've at least half-assed yourself a costume.

[righteously]

[ And so comes the voice drifting over from a window next door, and Dean doesn't whirl so much as twist aggressively with his feet still planted. ]

Mind your own damn business, Wilson!

[ He snaps, nary a note of apology in that tone.

Is Home Improvement too niche of a reference to make? Wellp, too late to take it back. ]

[handycapable]

It's Gillette!

[ Yeah, the reference is right over his head, unfortunately, as Ray's never seen Home Improvement in his life. If anything he takes it as a Dennis the Menace reference, which only irritates him more: how dare someone (correctly) compare him to a cranky old man, just because he's acting like one. ]

And you're disturbing the peace! [ He shouts again, because it's the racket that brought him to the window in the first place. ] Just go down to the store and buy yourself some damn candy!

slides right into nOT TODAY SATAN

[helled]

Dean! Hey!

[ Sam's waving his arms, trying to get the attention of his older brother currently dashing his way across the neighbourhood lawns like a mad man.

He's standing on a still intact porch, behind a row of lit pumpkins, because it's Sam. Of course he's figured that much out, at least. The rest of this ... whatever it is might require a little more research and a few more weapons than a spare fire-poker and a broken off chair leg. ]

Quick! Over here!

speak of the devil ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

[righteously]

[ The sound of his name gives him a .2 second little falter there at the top of a swing, and one of the little ankle biters very nearly gets a good chomp in. He recovers quickly enough to jam his fireplace poker right up its maskhole, and there's a gross spray of bodily fluid and swamp water as he rips it out on his way toward Sam. ]

—the hell are you doing?

[ Demanded breathlessly as soon as he vaults over the railing of the porch, dots not yet connected, prepped to drag all seven foot thirteen inches of 1960s flannel out into the great wide yonder — until Decomposing Oliver Twist wanders by sniffing at the air. Its attention seems to pass straight over the porch, and then it toddles off to go make someone else regret their decision to have children.

The fire poker slowly lowers. ]

Wait-- seriously? So they're, what, gourd-blind?

groans loudly

[helled]

Something like that. [ Sam's mouth twists into a rueful smile. ] C'mon, let's get inside.

[ This is said as Sam steps over to one of the pumpkins with a dangerously low-lit candle, quickly replacing it with another much fuller one. A demonstration, if you will. ]

It took a little bit of trial and error but one thing's clear: these things, whatever they are, aren't a fan of Jack-o-lanterns. [ He gives his brother a quick study, checking for obvious injuries. ] You okay?