"Hey, Sam? I want a flamethrower for Christmas."
"I'll keep that in mind. They can't climb up here, can they?"
"They're zombies, dumbass, not monkeys. They don't climb."
"Are you sure? What is that one doing--"
"Just use those gigantic feet of yours and kick it in the head. And get your bow ready."
"I dropped it."
"You dropped it?"
"When that one grabbed my ankle down there. But I still have my machete."
"Well, that's nice. Maybe you can cut some of these branches off and build us a lean-to while I -- just kick the fucker, damn it!"
"Ew. Yuck. If we survive I'm so getting new shoes tomorrow."
"Whatever, Imelda. Did you drop your bolts too?"
"Nope. Still got those."
"Well, pass 'em over."
"Okay, here they--"
"Jesus, Sam, what the hell?"
"Uh, right. You know, it's probably better if you don't fall out of the tree."
"Just a friendly suggestion. Now pass the bolts before you decide to sacrifice your giant brain to those hungry mouths below."
"Shut up. I was just startled."
"What -- oh. Huh."
"She was on the branch right here. Probably running away from them too."
"Smart cat. But we kind of have more pressing concerns right now, Sammy. Here, take my lighter. It'll go faster if you light the ends of the bolts for me."
"'Kay. Just a sec. Let me--"
"Oh, look at you, you fearsome warrior. We can change your battle name to Sits In Trees And Kills Zombies With Kittens On His Shoulder."
"Fuck you. You want to me to light the bolts or not?"
"Thanks. It's a good thing they're all so old. I hate trying to kill the juicy ones. Always have to chop the heads rather than going with fire."
"Bet you can't hit that one between the eyes."
"That old guy with the beard."
"Yeah? What do you want to bet?"
"Laundry duty for a month."
"You're on. Light me up."
"Hey, no comments from the peanut gallery."
"She's right. That was a pretty lame shot, Dean."
"The bastard's flaming now, isn't he?"
"In the leg. Which is kind of far from his eyes."
"Kills him just as good. Okay, then, hotshot. Watch this. Winchester special. Dead chick in the white dress, right in the heart."
"No way you can make that. She's, like, more than a hundred feet away."
"Whoa...okay, that was kind of cool. But you're not getting out of laundry duty."
"How many more arrows we got?"
"Well, good. There are only six zombies. Looks like we might live through the night after all."
"Your confidence is truly heart-warming. Twenty bucks says you can't hit the guy with the top hat right in his polka-dot bowtie."
"Dude, that's twenty bucks you'll never see again."
"What the hell is she complaining about? We killed them all, didn't we?"
"I think she's hungry."
"Does she eat brains?"
"She probably eats cat food, Dean, but you never know."
"Well, okay. Let's go."
"You sure there are no more?"
"You see any more folks crawling out of graves?"
"Okay...if you're sure. We did alright, I guess."
"We? Who is this we, Sammy? Are you talking about the guy who dropped his crossbow or the guy who didn't?"
"Fine. Whatever. You did fine, Mr. Heroically Kills Zombies With Flaming Arrows While Perched In A Tree With A Branch Up His Ass."
"Hey, no, man. I'm not knocking your part in the deal. I mean, I may have single-handedly dispatched more than a dozen walking corpses and saved this unsuspecting town from a zombie menace of nightmare proportions, but you...you rescued a kitten from a tree. You're a real hero, Sammy."
"No, really, I mean it. You think she has a name?"
"No. Maybe. She kind of looks like a Pumpkin."
"What? It's a good name."
"Sometimes I really can't believe I'm related to you."