The Rules of the Trade
By Alone Dreaming
Rating: PG or K (Discussion of weapons)
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. If I did, this would be in an episode instead of being under fanfiction.
Warnings: None.
Dedication: To my muse who has decided to come out of hiding.
Author's Note: This was a challenge given by my college professor as an assignment. Write a story about what your character desires using memory and a specific object to bring out the desire. Use a high amount of detail through the five senses. I chose Dean as my character. Enjoy.
Anyone else would have found it picturesque.
The forest seeped over the land, creating puddles of tall firs and trickles of stocky pines. Splattered about were pools of yellow, pink and white flowers which soaked into dry clearings of green grass. Drops of ruffled bushes were scattered in the midst of this along with the streams of seedlings taking root. A gentle wind encouraged the oozing beauty to ripple about. The flowers shivered, the trees twitched and the bushes and seedlings crinkled. Musky scents of muddy earth and wild flowers dribbled into the air and created an aroma that was reminiscent of incense. Paradise, the smell cried, traveling through nose and mouth, this is paradise
But he could not sense this. Instead, he noticed the disturbing lack of animal activity. Though the forest itself seemed to be in its rushing prime, there was not the single movement of any beast in the trees, flowers or bushes. No sound beyond the scratching of wood on leaves and the testy buzz of grass against grass was audible. Even the ant pile at his feet, grey like pepper, had no creatures moving about it. The stillness gave him a familiar, unpleasant crawling on the back of his neck.
It made him even more uncomfortable to see the bullet casings lying near the base of a nearby oak. Three of them were carelessly discarded, standing out starkly against the dark, brown wood. They gleamed like the eyes of a predator, watching him both with lust and warning. But he was not one to listen as he crouched next to them and scooped the closest up, fingering the cool metal with calloused fingers. The distinctive odor of metal, sharp and pungent, was there interrupting the gentle fragrance of the woods but something else was coupled with it. It was a familiar essence, he realized, bringing the casing up to his face and studying it carefully. Though, he decided it must've been a while since he had-
It him so hard he felt as though he'd received a physical blow. His feet tripped out from under him and he sat down, the metal pressing viciously into his palm. Except now, it wasn't an empty casing but an actual bullet and in his other hand, a small pistol rested. His fingers were soft, chubby and pink and attached to the downy, barely lined palms of a child. Determination surged through him as he carefully placed the bullet into the cleaned gun and the reeking of oil bit at his nostrils. There was the resounding click of the safety and he felt himself staring up at his father, who towered over him like a giant. He felt small against this man, but important because this man, his father, his protector, was trusting him with the ultimate duty.
"Okay, Ace," his father growled in his comforting bass. "What do you do if someone comes in?"
"Shoot first," he squeaked in his childish soprano, "ask questions later."
There was a darkness in the smile his father favored him and a painful roughness as the older man patted him on the head. "Good boy. And if the school calls?"
He tried to make himself sound like an adult but ended up sounding like a little girl who had a chest cold. "My son is sick and needs to stay in bed. He'll be back as soon as he is well."
It was a horrible imitation and it put knives in his throat. Or maybe it was the overwhelming stench of the oil.
"Or just don't answer," his father told him, and he nodded his tiny, blonde haired head to show that he understood. "Now, what is most important of all?"
The feeling of duty surged over him in an overwhelming fashion and he stood as straight as his four feet could manage. "Protect my brother."
"That's right," his father said, slapping him on the back and causing him to jerk forward. "You watch him."
And then his rear was on the crackling grass in the middle of the falsely peaceful woods. The sickly stink had faded back against the heavy perfume of the woods though it continued to tickle the back of his sinuses and push down on his tongue. The casing was still in his hand, now warm from being clutched for so long. Once again, his hands were calloused and his hair was short cropped. His voice was the same husky snarl that his father had and his stature was far taller than four feet. But as he scrambled to his feet, the feeling of duty remained.
The casing, now glazed with the sweat and grime of his hand was released back to the forest floor and his fingers wrapped around the gun he kept in his jacket. Not the same gun as he'd held all those years before, not his first gun he'd pressed against his chest at the tender age of seven, but a different gun, made for a man who knew how to shoot. He pulled it out and held it against him as he did twenty years previous before striding purposely forward.
Rule one, shoot first, ask questions later.
Rule two, do what you must but shut up if you can.
Rule three, protect your brother.
"Don't worry, Sammy," he whispered to no one, as the casings disappeared from sight and the odor was gone from his taste buds. "I'm coming."
The End of Sorts.