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Dean, as a teenager, had spent most of the time he should have been in school in various movie theatres around the country. Sometimes he took Sam with him, if there wasn’t a test or something the next day. It was just the two of them, hunched over in the back of the theatre, shoving popcorn or jubejubes or M&Ms in their mouths.
He very rarely brought a girl with him, unless it was his second or third viewing, when he could recite the lines in his head as he licked into their mouth and stroked a hand up their side.
He and Sammy always cheered for the bad guys, right out loud, ignoring the other patrons. Or they did, until Sammy, overnight, became embarrassed by the whole thing and stopped going. Dean stopped going soon after, but not before he’d picked up some pearls of wisdom, if you’ll excuse the stupid wording.
If you try hard enough, you can outrun an explosion.
Dean had just hauled himself out of the open grave and was staring into the open pit, listening to Sam bitch about having to pour the salt in. Dean himself got to fling the lighter fluid in, obviously, because he was older and an all-around cooler guy.
“Dean,” Sam said, as Dean was striking the match. He paused politely, lit match hissing in his hand, to hear his brother out. If he made an impatient face, it was well-justified. Sam continued, finally, with, “Do you smell gas?”
Dean sniffed and smelt it just as the flame reached his fingers. He cursed and let it go, watched it drop. “Sammy. Run.”
Which is how Dean learned that even if you tried really hard and ran as fast as you knew how, you can’t really outrun an explosion.
Mountains and castles that are shaped like skulls, hideous faces, fists, etc., are the very Lairs of Evil. All visits will be planned accordingly.
Once, Sam and his Dad had left Dean, who was still recovering from mono (served him right, in Sam’s opinion), with Pastor Jim and took a plane to Transylvania (no, seriously). John had decided, in his infinite wisdom, that yanking his youngest son out of school to check out a possible vamp nest on another continent was a good idea.
They’d walked into the biggest forest Sam had ever seen, silence left over from their latest version of the same old fight hanging heavy between them. After about three years of walking, they’d hit a clearing at dusk and stared, silent for a completely different reason, at a gigantic fucking mountain. A mountain with a long-fanged skull carved into the side of it. The surface swarmed with activity, dark figures moving busily in the eyes.
Sam looked to his father, then back at the fucking skull-mountain. He muttered, “No way am I messing with a skull mountain.” Beside him, John sucked on his teeth and then grunted, turned, and started walking back the way he came. As Sam caught up, he heard John grumble something about never leaving the United States again.
At Pastor Jim’s, Dean refused to believe a word he said, flat-out rejecting the fact that he missed out on seeing a giant evil skull in the middle of the Transylvanian woods.
No one ever aims at the legs of the monster that’s chasing them. They just keep running away, pausing every now and then to pump bullets into its torso, until it overtakes and kills them.
Okay, now this one pissed Dean off by being so goddamn true.
He’d once watched a Hunter with almost ten years of experience run through the woods, leaping over logs like a freakin’ deer or something, banging bullets into the torso of this big lumbering monster with six legs and a head full of antlers.
Dean was shouting, “Shoot its legs, its legs, you RETARD!” from where he was dangling from his feet (goddamn rope traps), until the Hunter, Mister I-Know-More-Than-You-You-Dumbass-Kid, was eaten in about five big chews when he ran out of bullets and then tripped over a root.
Which was another thing. You always trip over roots in the woods when something fucking scary is chasing you. You just have to hope you can roll out of the way in time to avoid the chewing that inevitably ensued.
If defibrillation doesn’t work, the best way to revive someone whose heart has stopped is to scream, “You can’t do this to me! I love you, goddammit!” at them.
Sam had figured out that this did not work himself, as Dean, the Idiot, lay in a pool of water in some nasty, moldy-ass basement with the taser still ticking stupidly at his side. He’d even gotten down on his knees and raised his arms to the ceiling, which was crawling with bugs by the way, and turned his face heavenward and bellowed, “NOOOOO!” He could barely talk for like, two days afterward, and he still had to haul ass to the hospital in order for Dean to pull through.
A leap from a hotel roof is completely safe as long as you can land in the pool.
Not true. Dean had tried this and managed to land in the pool, as planned. But. The pool was half-empty and the water fucking hurt when he hit it. And then it hurt even more when he flew-sank (meaning he sank really fucking fast) to the bottom of the pool and his knees bent all wrong and then he got confused and swam down and then sideways and smacked his head off of everything and dammit all if he wasn’t bleeding and at least it was a pool and not the ocean, because he’d seen Jaws about five million times.
The hotel security guard, trying to look tough, was waiting for him with his gun drawn when he finally surfaced, and informed him the police were on the way. Dean had just spluttered and splashed until Sam, trying to look concerned instead of laughing his ass off, had smashed the guard just under his ear with the butt of his gun and helped him out of the pool.
“Dude,” Dean muttered, dripping, “shut up.”