SAMMY'S GOT A GUN
By: Karen B.
Summary : Sam is 9. Dean is thirteen. "This is yours now, Sam."Sam peeked up nervously, through the iron flat bangs shielding his eyes."Dad's .45 Caliber." Dean handled the gun respectfully. "You're lucky, man. I wanted this gun."
Rated: Angst boys. Brotherly fluff.
Disclaimer: Not the owner.
Thank you very much for your time!
Vaya Con Dios,
Sam fidgeted from one foot to the other. Hands rigid at his sides, and staring blankly down at the brown grass wilting under the hot Georgian sun.
"This is yours now, Sam."
Sam peeked up nervously through iron-flat bangs, shielding his eyes.
"Dad's .45 Caliber." Dean handled the gun respectfully. "You're lucky, man. I wanted this gun."
"You can have it."
"What? Wrong color, Sam? You rather have hot pink," Dean chuckled.
"Stupid!" Sam yelled. "I don't want any color. Don't want any of this, Dean!"
"Too bad!" Dean snapped, an unhappy look on his face. "You're getting it."
"You're not my boss."
"Today, I am."
"Let me guess.... 'cause you said so?" Sam barked.
"'Cause Dad said so."
"I don't care."
"Stop being such a bitch."
"Stop being such a jerk." Sam took one step backward, away from Dean, fists curled in an act of defiance.
"Sam, you're pissing me off, man!" Dean stiffened. "This isn't school. A classroom full of chalkboards, desks, cookies and milk money," Dean snarled. "You're not coming along on hunts just for the ride anymore."
"Sam! We are doing this. It's my job to help Dad train you." Dean rushed forward, grabbed Sam by the wrist, and shoved the butt end of the .45 roughly into his hand. "You have to learn how to…how to…"Dean choked.
"How to kill, Dean?"
"How to protect yourself, and us!" Dean breathed hotly. "Sam, this isn't cowboys and Indians. You know what's out there!" Dean glanced around. "Nasty sons of bitches that want us dead." His eyes landed back on Sam. "Do you want to see Winchester blood splattered everywhere? They'll rip your lungs out, and make you watch while they eat them. Slash your belly wide. Open your stomach just to see what you ate for lunch. Drool on your liver and leave your blood-covered guts for the coyotes and maggots to finish off."
"Not gross, Sam, real. You. Are. Doing. This!"
Sam gulped and timidly wrapped a finger over the trigger.
"No, Sam." Dean lightly flicked at Sam's finger." Never touch the trigger until you're damn good and ready to shoot. Always treat a gun as if it's loaded, and only point in the direction of the thing you plan on shooting. It's not a toy," Dean ranted. "Gun's just as likely to kill you as anything."
"Dean…" Sam scoffed at the ground with the toe of his sneaker. "I'm… scared." His hand shook.
"Sammy." Dean dropped his hand on top the gun, steadying Sam's grasp. "I'm scared, too."
"You are?" Sam looked up at Dean in shock -- eyes wide.
"Aw, hell yeah, dude, I'm scared," Dean said, raising his hand off the gun to rub the tension at the back of his neck. "I've seen some bad stuff, Sam. In my face -- bad stuff. And I am scared. Scared of you... not knowing how to protect yourself when the nasty bullshit goes down. And the nasty bullshit will go down, Sam…always does. Fast and hard. A gun in an untrained hand…sucks. You have to be prepared. Every shot counts," Dean explained firmly. "Can't have you wiggin' when fugly is breathing hot and heavy down your neck. You'll end up putting your eye out, shoot your damn foot off, nail Dad in the ass, or put my awesomeness…" Dean glanced down. "…Out of order." He looked back up, waggling his brow.
"You're sick." Sam rolled his eyes.
"Roll your eyes all you want, bro, it's true." Dean smiled, but it was weak. "That's why you have to learn, now." Dean gestured toward the beer cans. "On targets that don't bite back unless you drink them." He took his hand off the gun. "Besides, it's your Second Amendment Right. Right, Sam?"
Sam squinted through the bright sunlight at the twelve ounce can's of Budweiser. All twenty of them were lined up in a neat row only a few yards away, atop a graying tree trunk lying on its side. He was nine-years-old. What rights did he have? The right to go to school, have friends, play soccer, own a dog. All the rights of a normal kid. Sam knew he was no normal kid. Most boys his age were playing shoot 'em up on their Game Boy -- an innocent toy. Not going all Commando per the orders of their ex-military father, under the guidance of their thirteen-year-old brother.
"We're just going to shoot at some targets. Get you used to handling that bad boy. No big deal." Dean gave a small reassuring nod.
Sam took a deep breath and swallowed, still he tasted fear in his mouth.
"Sam?" Dean whispered. "Okay?"
Sam nodded a can't beat 'em -- join 'em -- nod. He held the gun up chest-high pointing th muzzle toward the cans.
"Like this?" he asked, twitchy, jumpy, scared and excited all at once.
"Good. You can do this, Sam. Now ease back on the hammer."
Sam blinked, slowly easing back the hammer.
Sam squeezed one eye shot -- consintrating on the first can.
"Fire!" Dean gave the command.
Sam pulled the trigger. "Ehhh," he yelped, body unexpectedly jerking back with each explosion. The crack of gunfire rolled across the field, like thunder. Bullets hit the dirt and graying tree limbs until the gun was empy -- every beer can still in place. Sam shakily lowered the gun, fighting back the tears that sprang to his eyes. "I suck."
"No. No, you don't, pal." Dean took the gun. "Sam, how many sets of eyes do you have?" Dean asked as he reloaded the weapon.
"Duh," Sam grumbled. "One."
Dean glanced up, a serious look on his face. "Wrong, Sam," he said. "You have three."
"Huh?" Sam cocked his head.
"Look." Dean pointed to Sam's eyes. "This pair, sees the thing lurking in the night... before it ever sees you. This pair--" Dean poked a finger on either side of Sam's head. "Sees the dudes you're hunting with. Know where they are at all times." Dean finished reloading the gun and slowly walked behind Sam, jabbing a finger into the back of Sam's head. "And this pair here... keeps you from being two steps too slow. Understand?"
"I'll show you." Dean cut Sam off, coming back around to face him. "Shhh," Dean pressed a finger to his lips. "Be vewwy, vewwy quiet... I'm huntin' beer cans."
"So funny I forgot to laugh," Sam muttered.
"Don't forget this." Dean turned toward the targets, pointing the gun down range. "Normal people shoot with one eye closed. We're not normal people, Sam. Keep both eyes open, your grip firm -- no airspace between the handle and your hand." Dean kept his gaze straight ahead as he spoke. "Feet… shoulder length apart." He put action to his words. "Elbow straight. You have to be quick, but you also have to focus," he said in a calm and patient tone. "Aim for center mass. When you pull the trigger, pull at a steady rate. Be sure of your target. And everything around it. Breath in…"
Dean shot from the hip, flipping cans in the air -- landing tin number one, two and three to the ground.
"Breath out," Dean exhaled. "Retake aim."
Dean easily cleared three more cans, and just as easily reloaded.
"Crap, you're really good at that," Sam grumbled.
"You're really good at stuff, too, Sam."
"Like what?" Sam asked, still staring in aw.
"Like…" Dean paused, a weasel of a smile crossing his face. "Throwing up, crying like a baby, being a big, pain in my a…"
"Bite me!" Sam shouted angrily, punching Dean in the arm.
"Here." Dean handed Sam back the gun. "Try again."
With fiery determination, Sam, mimicked every move he had watched his brother make.
Both eyes open wide.
Gun held firm.
Feet spread apart.
"Wow! Two out of three, Sam! Not bad," Dean clucked. "Now I know what makes you tick. Just need to get you all fired up… see what you can do." Dean winked. "Ready to go again?"
"I'll be right here the whole time, buddy. Ready?" Dean repeated.
Sam nodded, not keen on the idea, but also not wanting to let Dean down.
A few hours later…
They quietly walked back side-by-side through the brown grassy field, under the bluer than blue sky.
Dean, the first to break the silence."You did real good, Sam."
"I did?" Sam asked, excited over his brother's round of applause.
"Sure. Not a bad shot for a girl," Dean cackled.
Sam glanced down at the ground, pressing his lips together -- not saying a word.
"Aw, buddy." Dean slung an arm over Sam's shoulder and drew him near. "Seriously, you did a good job," Dean praised, this time no cocky, macho crap about it.
Sam looked up to his big brother -- in every way a little brother could look up -- eyes making contact. "Did Dad teach you?" he asked.
"Dude, I'm so awesome I taught myself…born with a gun in my had." Cocky and macho back full force.
Sam was real quiet again, looking down at the ground as they walked.
"Hey." Dean tugged Sam closer. "You still scared?" he asked softly.
"Maybe... "Sam's voice quivered. "…Just a little."
"Sammy." Dean stopped and crouched down before Sam. "Fugly's to the left of us, sons of bitches to the right, but here in the middle…" Dean waved a hand between them. "It's always going to be you, me and Dad. The gun doesn't make the man, Sam. The man makes the gun. We'll keep each other safe. Promise. Okay?"
A rush of trust and love flowed through Sam
"So…" Dean stood. "Ready for more target practice?"
"What are we going to shoot now?" Sam asked as they started heading back again.
"Looks," Dean said
"Looks?" Sam questioned.
"At girls. Cheerleading practice starts today."
"Gross is putting ketchup on your eggs. Watching girls...fun!"
"I like hot sauce on my eggs."
"You're pissing me off."
"You're not my boss, Dean."
"I am today."
"I don't want to watch cheerleaders."
"It's fun and you're doing it."
"Stop being such a jerk."
Stop being such a bitch."