Pairing: None; gen.
Word Count: 460
Summary: Dean teaches Sam how to shoot a gun.
Disclaimer: Don’t own; don’t sue.
Notes: Written for spnflashfic a longass time ago. Enjoy!
“Nice. Very nice. Double-tap method on that last one. Very effective.”
“Why, thank you.”
Dean grinned, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand while Sam walked the short distance across the field to retrieve the target sheet. He watched his younger brother tear the white paper off the dead tree trunk and examine it up against the pale midday light. The sun shined through the clusters of holes where the rounds had pierced through.
Two punctures straight through the skull of poor Mr. Bullseye.
Dean was filled with a surge of pride. Sammy was definitely improving from the last time they’d tried this—the evidence of Sam’s less successful attempts lay imbedded in the rotting logs that made up the abandoned ranch fence, the dead oaks and the dirt slope leading up to the tool shed.
“Think you’re ready for the Glock?” Dean called out to his brother, who was still marveling at the sheet in his hands.
“You kidding?” Sam barked incredulously, his tone betraying the smile spreading across his face.
Dean just shrugged and sat down on the rickety wooden bench that had long since lost its picnic table mate. The handgun case lay at his feet, the rounds in a state of disarray around the hard plastic casing. Sam, in all his grace, had kicked the small box over in his excitement to start practice.
Sam skidded over slippery rock and stone, sopping earth and grasses—all wet from last night—and stumbled to a stop at Dean’s side. He shoved his records in Dean’s face, circling a group of punctures with a finger. “Look at that, dude. Look at it!”
“I’m lookin’, I’m lookin’!” Dean took the sheet from Sam’s hand, pretended to scrutinize it, tried to look smart and critical all in one go. Sam and his fucking contagious grin made it pretty impossible to look serious. Dean smiled and gave his little brother a thumbs-up. “Awesome, man. Seriously.”
“I know you want me to try the Glock, but I think I want to give that assault rifle a whirl first, if that’s okay,” Sam blurted animatedly.
Dean brow furrowed, but he nodded nonetheless. “We’ll have to go into town for some ammo.”
Sam toed at the dirt with the sole of his muddy trainers, then looked up. Eyes shining, bright in the dim sunlight that was Shelbyville after a storm. Perhaps haunted and too wise beyond years and completely and utterly tainted from hunt after hunt, case after case, death after death after death.
But Sam was happy now and smiling, something he hadn’t been and done in a while, and Dean was willing to do anything to keep it that way.
Even if it meant teaching his twenty-six-year-old brother to fire a gun with his mind.