Behind A Gun I'll Make My Final Stand
Note: Title is a reference to the Bad Company song "Bad Company"
Disclaimer: As per ususal, I don't own anything.
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The first time he held a gun, he was four. John took him skeet shooting and he was so good at it they went for pizza and ice cream afterwards to celebrate.
When they came back home he hugged his mom, told her gleefully that daddy says he did good then raced upstairs to tell Sammy all about it.
He climbed up onto the stepstool and peered into the crib and told him how scary it had been and then, he did it. He listened to what daddy had said and it worked.
"When you're bigger like me, you can come with me and daddy and I'll show you how, okay Sammy?"
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But after Mary died, Dean realized it was up to him to teach Sam all sorts of things.
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Dean held Sam's hands as he showed him what to do.
"One foot and then the other." He explained patiently, with a firm grip on Sam's hands so that he wouldn't fall. "Okay, Sammy?"
He let go of Sam's hands and as Sam started to sink to the floor Dean caught him.
"You don't have to be afraid," Dean told him, "I promise I won't let you fall."
He helped Sam right himself and walked him around the room, holding onto his hands.
A week later when Sam toddled across the room and plopped down on Dean's lap, Dean grinned.
"I knew you could do it, Sammy."
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"It's too hard!" Sam complained, frustrated, taking the book his kindergarten teacher had assigned and throwing it down on the table.
Dean sighed, pushing away his math homework and turning to Sam. "You only think it is." He told his brother handing him back the book. "C'mon, I'll help you."
Dean glanced at the title, Love You Forever.
"Sam, c'mon." Dean urged him, "It just takes a little practice and soon you'll be a pro."
"No, won't." He sulked.
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"Make sure the safety is on." Dean instructed, handing Sam his .22.
Sam nodded his head, "Okay, next."
Dean handed him the ammo. "Load it."
It took Sam less than a minute, he knew all of this, he thought Dean was going to teach him how to shoot.
"Okay."
Dean took the rifle out of his hand and checked it.
"This is ridiculous Dean," Sam said, "I know all this stupid stuff, I thought you were teaching me how to shoot." He glanced at his watch, "I'm going to be late for soccer practice."
Sam reached for the gun and Dean pulled it out of his younger brother's grasp.
"You think this is a game, Sam?" Dean pushed Sam in the chest, and he stumbled. Didn't Sam understand? He was trying to keep him alive, damn it! "Twelve years and you think you know everything? Hunting isn't a game, these guns aren't a game. This is life. Life and death. Preparation is everything. Our enemies won't take pity on us, they will kill us without a second thought…that's not a game."
Sam was taken aback, and Dean was sorry, but this wasn't about being nice, it was about keeping his family alive. Making sure no damn demon ever got one over on Sam.
Keeping Sam alive was his life, his job, and he'd die before he failed at it.
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"No!" Dean screamed as Sam collapsed to the ground.
He caught Sam in his arms and he watched his brother die. He watched himself fail in the same moment that the light went out of Sam's eyes.
When he saw Sam walking towards him, it was relief for both of them. Dean could breathe again, Sammy was okay, his brother wasn't dead. Sam was relieved, because it was Dean, and Dean was always there for him. If Dean was there, it was over…everything was going to be okay; because Dean never let bad things happen to him.
And then he felt a searing white hot pain, and then nothing. Like a switch had been flipped, pain and then nothingness.
"No. No, Sam! Sammy, you can't leave me." He pulled his brother close. "Not you…" He rocked on the ground, holding his baby brother in his arms. "I don't want to be alone."
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"No." She grinned, her eyes flashing red, mocking him. "No deal, Dean."
"Please," This is what he'd been reduced to? Begging demons…death would be easier but what was to guarantee him he'd have Sam back in death.
"No." She singsongs the one syllable. "Have a nice long life Dean."
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Sam's body is still warm and that bothers him the most out of anything. How can his brother be so warm, and so dead?
Why does it matter? He questions himself, he's dead.
Have a nice life, Dean
"What kind of life is it when you feel so dead inside?" Dean asked aloud, "Huh, Sam? I never expected to be some old guy in a rocking chair telling my war stories, but you were supposed to. You're not supposed to die. You're supposed to marry a pretty girl, have kids…not this."
"I've tried so hard," He feels his eyes welling up with tears again, but doesn't bother to stop them. "It should have been me, Sammy."
Why couldn't it be?
He feels his hands circle against the cold hard metal of his .45, and its familiar, comforting. He pulls it out of his pocket and feels his finger tighten around the trigger.
"Don't be angry with me, okay?" He asked him, his own voice sounding ridiculously childlike to his ears. "You understand Sammy?"
The gun is light in his hand, comforting…light at the end of the tunnel…
He puts it to his head and counts, 1, 2, 3...
His last kill.
He pulls the trigger, and wonders, does this count as suicide and do suicides really go to hell?
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