Yes. BE SHOCKED. I ACTUALLY updated. It took so long because I wrote so many other stories, and I wasn't sure what I wanted to do for this chapter. I knew I wanted a flash back, but... well, you know... i don't know what i'm saying...
Well, please enjoy this chapter anyway! It's mostly told from Sam's point of view. There aren't any REAL spoilers at the end. maybe a tiny for the beginning of season two, but that's old news.
And guess what? I don't own Supernatural. Yeah, I know, you really thought I did. But I do not! So suing in a no-no!
Sam carefully aimed his gun at the soda cans in the distance and fired off a handful of shots, trying to keep his hand steady all the while. He cringed as every shot missed his target, and once more when he felt his father's eyes boring into his back. He was sure that he'd do a whole lot better if his dad wasn't staring at him like that.
Sam glanced over to his big brother. Dean was really good at shooting stuff. He always hit his targets. He even got to use a real gun—while Sam was still using a pellet gun. Not that Sam was particularly jealous of that fact—he didn't really care for guns. They were too noisy and kinda scary. Not to mention he was really sick of practicing with them every day.
He looked over his shoulder, where John was frowning at him. "C'mon, Sammy, shoot down the cans."
"I can't! They're way too far away!" Sam complained. He was right, he knew it. The cans were further away than ever before, which meant that he had more trouble than he usually did.
"Yes you can," John insisted. "And I don't want to see either of you until you both knock down every one of those targets." He gave Sam a look. "Don't move from your spots. That means you don't go any closer to the targets."
Sam folded his arms across his chest huffily. Okay, so that had happened once. But that was a whole year ago!
John handed Dean a few more bullets before turning to go back inside. "And Dean, don't you dare shoot your brother's targets for him!"
That had happened a few times, too.
Dean was silent, looking out onto their targets. Empty soda cans for Sam, and eight-ounce bottles filled with water for Dean. "Both of us have six targets left," he said quietly, frowning to himself.
Sam, sensing that something was wrong, looked up to his brother with wide eyes. "What is it, Dean?"
Dean met his eyes and smiled. "If you hit all your targets, I'll tell you."
Sam pouted. "But I can't! I'm really bad at shooting…" He clenched his fists. "I'm no good at this." He really wasn't. And he wanted to be good, he really did. He wanted to be cool, like his brother. Screw trying to make Dad proud of him—that was a lost cause, Sam had figured that out a while ago. He wanted to make his brother proud.
"That's not true, Sammy. You're really good at this. You just don't know it yet." Dean patted Sam's shoulder in reassurance. "Don't worry about it, okay? Here, watch. You want to hold your gun more like this." He held up his gun for example, pointing it at his targets. "And remember, you want to keep both eyes open, and make sure the barrel is pointed at your target…" He watched as Sam copied him, and nodded. "Yeah, just like that." He stood behind his brother, leaning down to check his position. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, okay. Shoot it."
Sam pulled the trigger a few times. Joy filled him as he heard the ting of his pellets on the can, and he happily observed as his enemy the soda can fell from its perch. He gave Dean a wide smile. "Haha!"
Dean returned his smile. "Good job, Sammy."
Yep, Sam thought happily, Dean was the only one who said that to him.
"You better hurry and shoot the rest of your targets." Dean looked up to the darkening sky. "It looks like it's going to storm soon." He watched his brother shoot down three more of his targets before he shot down four of his own. When he looked back to Sam once more, his little brother had already knocked down his last target. It was pretty easy when you had virtually unlimited ammo.
"Yay!" Sam cheered. That must have been a personal record. He could never shoot them down that fast. But a second later, he frowned. "Now tell me what's wrong, Dean. You usually shoot down the targets really fast."
"I'm just thinking… I mean… Well, you know how Dad is."
"Huh?" Sam paused, confused. "Yeah, but what does Dad… What did he do?"
Dean opened his hand and showed Sam a single bullet. "This one bullet is the last one I've got left."
Sam looked to Dean's targets. There were two left.
"Yeah. Dad only gave me five bullets," Dean told him.
"Well, he probably forgot to give you enough. Just as for another."
Dean shook his head. "You know how Dad is. He gave me five bullets on purpose. He wanted to see what I'd do. I can't really shoot down two targets with one bullet, and I can't go anywhere until I knock them all down…"
Sam frowned again. "I'm sure you'll figure something out, Dean. Don't worry, I'll stay here with you."
"No, Sammy, you're done. Dad wouldn't want you staying here with me. I'll be in when I'm done… I shouldn't be too much longer."
Sam didn't want to argue, so he walked back to the small hunting cabin that they were staying in. He felt kind of angry. Not because Dean had tricked him into shooting all his targets before telling him that he didn't have enough bullets. Dean knew that Sam would want to stay out there with him, and had planned it carefully so Sam wouldn't have to do so. Sam didn't exactly take kindly to being tricked like that, but there was something else that was upsetting him that took his mind off it. Why would Dad only give Dean five bullets when he needed six? Sam glared. All his tests and training was just dumb. It didn't help them at all. It just made them sore and upset. Of course, Sam would never tell his father what he thought. His dad was scary when he was angry. But he had told Bobby once, and he'd always remember how Bobby had replied.
"Your daddy is just trying to protect you from all the evil out there. He's making you stronger so you can fight evil, instead of being killed by it. One day you're gonna thank him. Because one day, you'll be happy to be strong, to protect yourself and the ones you love."
Yeah, okay. If he could really protect the people he loved, then he wished he could be the strongest guy in the world… Okay, the second strongest. Dean would always be the strongest.
But he was pretty sure he wouldn't ever thank his dad for being so hard on him and his brother. He remembered when Dean had the chicken pox last year. His brother tried so hard to hide all the spots by wearing long sleeves. Even the first tiny spots on his face could have just passed as acne. But Sam knew a complete idiot could tell that Dean was sick. His brother kept coughing and scratching and all that gross stuff sick people did. Dean really did try to restrain from coughing when his father was nearby, but Sam didn't think his father would notice if Dean threw up on his boots. That just made Sam so angry. His brother was really awesome. He didn't know how Dad could just be such a jerk to him sometimes.
So since Dad didn't notice that Dean was sick, Sam had concluded that Dad must have been a complete idiot. Dad had sent him and Dean outside to shoot targets and run laps and practice tracking. It had been really hard on Sam, trying to run laps in a foot of snow. He had kept tripping, his face falling into the cold snow. And throughout all that, Dean was lagging way behind him, all red in the face. It didn't stop him from constantly asking if Sam was all right.
It wasn't until Dean collapsed—four hours later, while they were tracking—when Dad had finally come to his senses.
At that very moment, Sam thought that Dad cared. John had scooped up his eldest and rushed him into the house, looking concerned and maybe even scared. But Sam didn't get it—Dad hadn't even noticed in the first place… If he really cared, wouldn't he have noticed? But if he didn't, he wouldn't have reacted that way, would he? It only confused Sam. Maybe it was one of those things that he couldn't understand because he was 'too young'. There were a lot of those things…Too many…
Sam shook his head, trying to clear it of the past. He pushed the cabin door open and walked inside, kicking off his shoes and heading to the couch. His father in the chair beside the couch, reading a newspaper.
Sam bounced up on the couch and stared out the window. Dean only had one target left now, and it looked like he was still thinking about how to take it down.
Sam watched as his brother took out his knife and threw it at his target. Sam grew excited, but was disappointed when the knife only nicked the target. Dean stood completely still for a long time.
I guess he only had that one knife on him, Sam thought.
He turned away from the window for a moment, frowning at his father. "Dad. Why'd you only give Dean five bullets?"
He thought that maybe his dad would look up, surprised, and say, "Oh no, I did? I better give him another one, then."
But instead, he said, "Because, Sam, on a real hunt, there is a possibility that you could run out of ammo."
Sam glared, confused. "Then we always make sure we have lots of ammo. You don't have to make Dean sit out there trying to knock down a target without a bullet."
"Sam…," John warned, eyes not leaving the paper.
Sam's glare grew, but he didn't talk back. He went back to the window, pressing his face against the glass, not caring if his forehead, nose, or chin smudged it. "Daaaaaad," he finally said.
John stopped reading for a second. "What now?"
"It's raining." Sam waited for his father's response, but when he didn't get one, he went on, "Dean's gonna get all gross and wet. Tell him to come back in."
"Are all of his targets down?"
Sam seriously considered lying to his father and saying yet, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. "No…" He squinted out the window. Dean was staring at the ground. He then kneeled down, running his hand across the mud as if he had dropped something and now it was lost somewhere in the muddy mess. Sam pressed his face against the glass even harder, waiting for long minutes, until Dean stood again, the knees of his jeans all muddy and something clasped in his hand.
Sam wasn't sure what it was, but watched as his brother hurled it at his target with amazing speed. Sam didn't know for sure, but he saw the bottle of water explode! He heard a huge boom! from the explosion, and fire burst everywhere!
"Whoa!" Sam whispered in excitement, thought he knew the boom was thunder and the explosion in his imagination. "Dean is so cool!"
A moment later, Dean threw the door open and clomped inside. He threw off his boots and wiped his muddy hands on his jeans.
John didn't look up from the paper. "What'd you get it with?"
"A rock." And Dean began to walk to the room he and Sam shared.
"Best to figure it out faster that time. You'd be dead if that was a real hunt."
Dean didn't even stop at his father's words, but threw a 'yes sir' over his shoulder.
Sam scampered after his brother. "That was so cool, Dean! You should be a baseball pitcher!"
Dean chucked as he peeled off his sopping shirt. "Thanks…I think."
Sam jumped on his bed. "Why didn't you yell at Dad for not giving you enough bullets? He made you stand in the rain!"
"No, I made me stand in the rain. If I had thrown a rock at it sooner, I wouldn't have gotten wet at all. That was pretty dumb of me."
Sam folded his arms across his chest. "Well I thought it was cool."
Sam blinked open his eyes tiredly. That was kind of weird—dreaming of something that had happened so long ago… He remembered the whole thing like it was yesterday.
He glanced over to Dean, who wasn't in his bed but in the chair by the window, asleep.
Sam sighed quietly. How could he dream about the past when all he could think about was what was happening now? It had only been a month since he and Dean had burned John. But in that month, so much had happened. Dean had changed… It was really beginning to scare Sam. It was all because of their father—some stupid deal that he had made. Dean had said it was obvious before. It was the colt and Dad for him, simple as that. But now Dean felt that it was his fault that Dad was gone. Nothing could change that—Sam couldn't even suggest anything different without getting an icy cold glare.
He felt awkward. He couldn't talk to his brother the same way. He couldn't look at his brother the same way. Lately, the way Dean had been hunting mercilessly…it was scary. The look in his brother's eyes while he killed things like that was even worse. Sam hated that he could barely do anything about it. He felt like Dean was drowning, and Sam wasn't strong enough to save him.
He bit his tongue. He was just really scared. This was never supposed to happen. This wasn't supposed to happen to his brother. It reeked of something wrong—something evil.
"Sammy? Why aren't you sleeping?"
Dean had woken up, almost as if sensing Sam's anxiety. He blinked tiredly at his brother.
"Um, just woke up because my feet were cold."
Dean accepted this. "Okay…" He picked up the gun he had been cleaning before he had fallen asleep. He seemed to clean them a lot lately. Maybe it was a weird thing Dean did to relieve stress. Sam wasn't sure.
"Dean, why don't you get in bed and sleep like a normal person."
Dean glared slightly at like a normal person and kept cleaning. "No thanks. I want to be ready for tomorrow."
Right. Tomorrow he'd get another great chance to see Dean in creepy killer mode. Sam shuddered. "But you must have cleaned the guns a million times already, Dean. You should get some rest. You can't kill anything in your sleep, you know."
"Coffee, Sam. Coffee."
Sam shook his head. "Well I'm going to go to sleep." And with that, Sam turned over and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force the picture of Dean slaughtering vampires out of his mind. He hoped it wasn't like that this time.
I really like little Sammy. lol. For the next chapter I'm thinking of another flash back that's more from Dean's point of view. and after that? I HAVE NO IDEA. Cuz, you see, since I only really planned this thing to be one chapter long, I never thought this far. I'm going to have to start thinking about how to end this thing. lol.