By: Jeri Guevara
I wasn’t always a fan of horror – especially of the gory kind; I get the heebie-jeebies out of those the most, mostly because I don’t like metal tools and innards – which is weird because I absolutely fell in love with the TV series Supernatural (see hot men with guns, that’s hot). I probably owe my apathetic façade to all kinds of horrific, scary things to SPN (it also helped somewhat cure my ridiculous fear of women crawling out of absurd places – you know, like TVs or mirrors, probably – but I’ll save that for another day).
And with the recent torrential rains hammering the country for a week, my cousins had holed up in our house for a few days.
This had led to us marathoning Supernatural from season one to forever because I made them appreciate it too (reads: forcibly shoving it down their throats during the summer). It wasn’t really a surprise to me that, when everyone had settled down at four-something in the morning and my head was revolting against me, I awoke to a zombie apocalypse.
It’s the most awesome thing ever.
Not that I remember much of it, really. It started out pretty normal. I held a shotgun inside an office of glass walls. I should’ve been worried by my definition of normal – or lack thereof – but this was a dream, so I figured, whatever.
I heard someone, or something, shuffle around, and a growl.
And what the – a bloody, disfigured, dismembered something that could’ve been a person was heading towards me. I had a firearm but I couldn’t will my arms to move. So I did what I could do: I stared and wished I would wake up. But I didn’t. I didn’t wake up because there was a sharp bang and the creature’s head exploded. Ahh-wesome.
There, across me, were two people. One had cowboy boots, jeans, a leather jacket, a shotgun, and – oh my god – that’s Dean Winchester. And Sam Winchester. In front of me.
As we regrouped, there were another set of scuffling. They readied their shotguns and headed towards the sound. It’s really… creepy… to be sneaking with two gorgeous men in an empty hallway. Towards the end of the torturous corridor, there were two figures tightly gripping to each other. The other had a hand extended towards where they’re facing, and then I saw it was a pistol. They must’ve sensed our movements because they twirled towards us.
LO AND BEHOLD, in all his glory, there was Harvey Specter (and of course Mike Ross; Harvey wouldn’t leave without his lawyer boyfriend) in his three-piece suit, slicked-back hairdo with his signature James Bond-Batman aura all over the place. Plus, he had a gun.
I mean seriously, can this fantasy get any better?
(A crossover between Supernatural and Suits, really?)
The rest was pretty much a blur to me: there were butt-kicking, shooting and running, blood and exploding heads, and overall oozing hotness.
At one point, it was opted to just stay inside the building, since it’s probably better off than outside. When all the adrenaline had worn off and I had a chance to just appreciate this for what it is, I had an epiphany:
You know what’s better than bloody, hot men in suits with guns? Disheveled, bloody, hot men in suits with guns.
It should be illegal, dreaming of things like these; because at some point it’s bound to turn a 360 to sexy (I can’t believe I just said that). It’s unfair to be surrounded by four drenched, beautiful men and yet know they’re not tangible (because if I probably try to touch their hand…or…pecs, they’d vanish into oblivion).
At occasions like these, I feel the need to crawl into a dark hole and cry myself to sleep, or a coma or disappear or what…
…I reckoned, there’s no moment like the present and time was fleeting, so I went for the kill.
But before I could even close the gap between me and them, something shifted beside me and there it was: a girl, no more than seven, with her face all mushed up and half-covered with her tangled, black mane, teeth gnarled and painted with blood, and eyes bloodshot.
I felt the air leave me and everything felt…numb.
I woke up to a cold room, an overcast weather and even more miserable insides.