Dean Winchester (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dudeimbatman) wrote2009-01-19 02:07 pm
dudeimbatman) wrote2009-01-19 02:07 pm
You live like you're afraid to die [And you'll die like your afraid to go]
[Everyone has a motto, creed, quote, etc that they live by. What's yours and why?]
He’s nearly thirty. Nearly nothing, in five days he will be thirty and he’s been to Hell once. Almost dead more than that. Thirty isn’t a number Dean Winchester ever planned for. Sixteen? Oh hell yeah. He’d known since he was five that sixteen was the magic number. That was when John handed him the keys to his baby. Eighteen wasn’t that big a deal. He already had all the freedom he was ever gonna get. A fake ID, dad who wasn’t around and a little brother that was all added up to eighteen not being that special. Twenty-one made a big impression for obvious reasons. He could use his actual driver’s license to buy a girl a drink. Although by twenty-one, Dean had learned that with the right smile and a wink, girls would buy him the drinks.
Thirty is a number, a birthday that he never contemplated ever having. Unlike most people who push their definition of old back further and further, Dean hasn’t. Thirty is old but then he’s a hunter and he knows a lot of them who’ve died before they ever reached thirty. It’s not a business with a lot of longevity and Dean’s comfortable with that. He always has been.
And that’s why he’s running for the Impala with a Wendigo hot on his ass. “SAMMY! Where the fuck is the damn flame thrower I asked you for five minutes ago?”
In reality, it was about 30 seconds ago but Sam pops up from the trunk, flame thrower in hand, Dean ducks just in time for the flame to gout over his head, drenching the Wendigo in fire. The creature falls back with an inhuman scream and Dean rolls into the passenger side of the Impala laughing his ass off. Sam’s wearing his bitch face when he gets into the driver’s seat.
“Oh come on, Sammich, you know that was fun,” Dean’s still laughing when Sam pulls onto the highway leaving nothing but Wendigo ash behind.
“Dean…you used yourself as bait….again.”
“Live fast, die young, leave a pretty corpse behind,” Dean says as he sits a little straighter in the passenger seat, shifting through the box of tapes in the center. It’s a motto he’s lived by since Sammy turned eighteen, ‘cause by then at least in theory, kid could take care of himself.
“Your hair got singed nearly off,” Sam responds straight faced. “Spot in the back.”
That sends Dean scrambling for the visor mirror. He can’t find anything wrong but Sam’s still wearing a poker face.
“Dude, you’re like twelve feet tall, couldn’t you have aimed a little higher?” Dean asks, hands combing through his hair. He can’t find anything burned or singed and the car doesn’t smell like burnt hair.
Sam’s poker face breaks and he’s the one laughing while Dean wears the bitch face. Turnabout is always fair play in the Winchester house.
He’s nearly thirty. Nearly nothing, in five days he will be thirty and he’s been to Hell once. Almost dead more than that. Thirty isn’t a number Dean Winchester ever planned for. Sixteen? Oh hell yeah. He’d known since he was five that sixteen was the magic number. That was when John handed him the keys to his baby. Eighteen wasn’t that big a deal. He already had all the freedom he was ever gonna get. A fake ID, dad who wasn’t around and a little brother that was all added up to eighteen not being that special. Twenty-one made a big impression for obvious reasons. He could use his actual driver’s license to buy a girl a drink. Although by twenty-one, Dean had learned that with the right smile and a wink, girls would buy him the drinks.
Thirty is a number, a birthday that he never contemplated ever having. Unlike most people who push their definition of old back further and further, Dean hasn’t. Thirty is old but then he’s a hunter and he knows a lot of them who’ve died before they ever reached thirty. It’s not a business with a lot of longevity and Dean’s comfortable with that. He always has been.
And that’s why he’s running for the Impala with a Wendigo hot on his ass. “SAMMY! Where the fuck is the damn flame thrower I asked you for five minutes ago?”
In reality, it was about 30 seconds ago but Sam pops up from the trunk, flame thrower in hand, Dean ducks just in time for the flame to gout over his head, drenching the Wendigo in fire. The creature falls back with an inhuman scream and Dean rolls into the passenger side of the Impala laughing his ass off. Sam’s wearing his bitch face when he gets into the driver’s seat.
“Oh come on, Sammich, you know that was fun,” Dean’s still laughing when Sam pulls onto the highway leaving nothing but Wendigo ash behind.
“Dean…you used yourself as bait….again.”
“Live fast, die young, leave a pretty corpse behind,” Dean says as he sits a little straighter in the passenger seat, shifting through the box of tapes in the center. It’s a motto he’s lived by since Sammy turned eighteen, ‘cause by then at least in theory, kid could take care of himself.
“Your hair got singed nearly off,” Sam responds straight faced. “Spot in the back.”
That sends Dean scrambling for the visor mirror. He can’t find anything wrong but Sam’s still wearing a poker face.
“Dude, you’re like twelve feet tall, couldn’t you have aimed a little higher?” Dean asks, hands combing through his hair. He can’t find anything burned or singed and the car doesn’t smell like burnt hair.
Sam’s poker face breaks and he’s the one laughing while Dean wears the bitch face. Turnabout is always fair play in the Winchester house.