Disclaimer: The Winchester's don't belong to me. Never have, and probably never will. Cry with me people…
WarningsNothing really. Mentions of violence, and slight angst. Nothing we're not used to, right?
Author's Note: A little drabble concerning Winchesters. Because I need something to start me off on this gloomy morning, and I don't feel like working. I am considering turning this into a set of drabble, but I am still debating it. Let me know if you think I should!
Hastily posted with little editing. Forgive mistakes!
Summery: Concerning Winchesters and their weapons.
Proficiency
Proficiency: noun; the state of being proficient; skill; expertness
It was a well known fact to all who knew the Winchester's that their skill with weapons was extraordinary. They lived and breathed weapons, breathed the gun oil, and the sharp tang of metal and the acrid scent of gunpowder. All were familiar with the heavy weight of a gun hastily shoved in the waistband of their jeans; of the boom of the shot gun as it fired and the soothing rhythm of methodically cleaning and reloading each one.
Dean's skill with guns sometimes amazed even their father. He could probably dismantle one in his sleep in under a minute if he wanted to. He slept with a gun next to his bed, a knife under his pillow and a box of rounds on the night stand. You never knew when the things that went bump in the night were going to show up, and it was better to be safe then sorry.
Sam didn't bother with such precautions, because he knew that Dean did. And when Dean was with him, there was no reason for him to worry about his own safety. Protecting things was in Dean's nature; it came as easily to him as breathing, and when a potential threat was in the air, Dean's hackles were up like a lioness defending her cubs.
John had never had reason to worry about Dean, what with his proficiency with weapons. Dean's body was a weapon in itself, and John was proud to say that he had had a hand in creating that in his boy.
Sam was the one they both worried about. While he was always interested in learning anything and everything he could, he had never had the particular passion for weapons that Dean had. He was capable enough, but his interest in them was somewhat lacking.
It wasn't until he was thirteen that Dean and John realised that Sam did have a skill in weaponry that they had never noticed, and it wasn't with guns.
It was with knives.
Sam could throw a knife twenty metres and nail a bullseye without raising a sweat. He had a good eye and perfect aim, and he seemed particularly enamoured with the heavy weight of a throwing knife in his hand. The feel of cool, smooth metal, and perfectly balanced weight, everything seemed right to him.
John was puzzled by his strange ability, but he never questioned it. Not after Sam saved his life by nailing a werewolf in the heart with a silver knife. He had never been so proud of his youngest, even as Dean and himself stared at him open mouthed.
Some mornings, when they were staying in an actual house, the hour was early and peace hung heavy in the yard like a thick blanket, John would look out the window to see Sam practising. He'd watch as Sam settled his stance, took aim and let the knife fly, watching motionlessly until the knives would bury themselves into whatever target he had set up neatly and with little fuss. Once it had done so, he'd walk lazily over and tug each knife out before heading back and doing it all over again.
It always amazed him, the amount of patience that Sam displayed with his knives. He had little patience with anything else in his life, especially him. But he had always been that way, John remembered; quick to anger and slow to forget. It was a trait he had inherited from himself, John knew, and it was one of his greatest regrets.
For his sixteenth birthday, John and Dean pooled together and bought Sam a very expensive set of custom made throwing knives. They went with him to Stanford, and as far as he knew, they were never very far from his person.
-End
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