December 1988
"Dude," Dean perched himself on the coffee table and pried the lid off their extremely well stocked first aid kit. "I told you. Spiderman doesn't fly."
Sammy was sitting on the sofa, staring morosely at his bloody palms like a very small, pessimistic fortune teller. He sniffled just a little on general principle, face set in frustration more than pain.
He didn't look up at his brother's comment, just mumbled a stubborn "Does, too."
Dean rolled his eyes and started to rummage through the kit.
"Well," he said after a while. "Then I guess you're not Spiderman."