WOW: goo. A troll hunt has gone pear-shaped. It leaves the boys in a 'sticky situation'.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, and I will never stopped whining about this.
"This is your fault," Dean grumbled.
Sam sighed; "Dean, be reasonable, how would I know that troll blood's adhesive?"
The creature had exploded spectacularly once sunlight hit it; its flying entrails coating the shocked Winchesters in viscous goo, welding them together as Sam fell onto Dean in the blast. Their subsequent struggles to separate themselves left them plastered chest-to-chest, two tightly tangled bodies, like two flies wrapped in spider-silk.
Laying helplessly on the ground, they glanced up through the undergrowth as a pretty young jogger passed.
"Dean," he croaked; "please tell me that's a gun in your pocket …"