Title: No William Tell
Rating: G
Spoilers: None really, references the "secret," which really isn't a secret anymore
Gen, preseries story in which Dean learns about William Tell.
Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own the Winchesters, no matter how much I may want to. And everything I know about William Tell, I learned from Wikipedia, which possibly means I know nothing.
"William Tell," Dad began, as Dean gazed up at him, squinting in the sunlight, "have you heard that legend yet?"
Standing in the middle of an open field, his father looking at him expectantly and Sammy several yards ahead of him, blocked by his father's body, Dean racked his brain, shuffling through names like James Bowie and Paul Bunyan, but coming up empty.
"No, sir," Dean replied, wondering how the name was related to the crossbow he was holding safely down by his side. For the past year or so, since he turned 10, Dad had been training him on the crossbow, mostly just shooting at targets, but lately he'd increased his training with it to about 2 hours a day, 5 days a week. His arm was sore, but getting stronger because of the consistent practice. Nine times out of ten, he hit the target exactly; he figured it was only a matter of time before he never missed at all.
"The legend goes back to the 14th century. William Tell was considered the greatest marksman in Switzerland. He lived in Uri, this small village dominated by some European country with something to prove, Austria or Hungary or something like that. This newly appointed bailiff, a real brutal guy, a stick-in-the-mud, overcompensating type, raised a pole in the village's center with his hat at the top and demanded that everybody that passed before it bowed down to it."
Dean listened intently, not entirely sure where this lesson was heading. Behind Dad, about twenty feet away, Sammy was performing what Dean could only describe as his own version of a Native American rain dance, an apple in his hand that he periodically flung up into the air and tried to catch between his legs. Dean expected nothing less from his weirdo little brother.
His eyes flicked back to his father as he continued on with his sleep-inducing story, not that Dean would ever tell him that, and he resisted the urge to shuffle his feet. He wanted to move, do something, but Dad was still talking so Dean was still listening.
"One day Tell walks by this pole and doesn't bow so right off the bat, he's arrested. His punishment was pretty creative, but downright cruel. Either he shots an apple off of his son's head or they are both executed."
Suddenly, Dean's attention was very focused on the apple in his little brother's hand and the weight of the crossbow in his own.
Dean took an involuntary step back away from his father, wanting to throw the crossbow down but knowing Dad would tan his hide for it. He broke eye contact with his father and tried to reassure himself that even his father wasn't that twisted.
"So Tell, really had no choice, you see. But luckily he was a hell of a shot and hit that apple perfectly, no harm done to his son," Dad finished and meaningfully locked eyes with Dean before turning around and shouting Sammy's name.
At the sound of his father's call, Sammy stopped his rain dance, caught his apple and balanced it carefully on the top of his head. He then struck a ridiculous boxer pose, his skinny arms bent and displaying muscles he only wished he had.
Dean was so disturbed by the entire situation that he couldn't even manage his customary 'What a dork' remark.
"So, Dean," Dad said, looking at Dean once again, "let's see how good of a shot you are."
"No," Dean said forcefully.
"No what?" Dad asked innocently.
"No to whatever involves a crossbow, an apple, and Sammy."
"If you'd been practicing, it shouldn't be a problem."
This time, Dean added a vicious head shake with his repetition of "No."
"What if I told you it was an order?" Dad asked.
The question split Dean in two, but there was really no debating it. "I'd still say no."
Dad stared at him for a minute, his face blank, and Dean was inexplicably worried he'd said the wrong thing, but then Dad smiled and Dean took a deep breath, his body relaxing.
Dad clamped a hand on his shoulder, "Good man." He squeezed once than withdrew his hand, turning to Sammy.
"Alright, Sammy, come over here."
Sammy broke his pose and the apple fell from his head. It rolled around in the dirt for a few moments until he finally reclaimed it. He looked at it for a moment, then shrugged and wiped it off on his dirty shirt before taking a giant bit out of it and running over to them.
Through the chunks of half-eaten apple in his mouth, Sammy asked, "Did I do it right, Dad?"
Dad smiled, "Perfect, kiddo."
Sammy raised a fist in triumph and then returned to his apple, the juice rolling down his chin.
Dean watched silently, his mind still trying to grapple with what had just happened. Sometimes, he just didn't get his dad. What was the point of that? God, he'd almost had a freakin' heart attack or something. At age 11. That'd be a new one. Dad's hand returned to his shoulder, but Dean couldn't look at him. Why would he even suggest something like that?
"Dean?" Sammy's soft voice brought Dean out of his thoughts. Sammy was looking at him from beneath all that hair, juice from the apple glistening on his lips, a smile half-way to fruition frozen on his face.
"Yeah, Sammy," Dean managed to get out.
"You okay?"
"Yeah, buttmunch, I'm fine."
Sammy glared at that one, "You can't call me buttmunch, buttmunch."
"Umm, I'm pretty sure I just did." There was no one like Sammy to draw you out of a funk.
Sammy huffed and opened his mouth, then shut it and huffed again, taking another bite of his apple. "Meanie," he whispered.
Dean mimed a sword going through his heart, twisting his fist to the right, "Ouch, twist that some more, Sammy, that one almost did me in."
"Daaaddd," Sammy complained.
"Alright, boys, that's enough. Let's get out of here," Dad said, removing his hand from Dean's shoulder and gathering up their stuff.
Teasing Sammy momentarily over, Dean couldn't help but return to his previous thoughts. He frowned, trying to figure things out in his head.
As they walked towards the Impala, the core of the apple was thrust into his face. "Want some?" asked Sammy.
"Some?" Dean asked, "What am I supposed to eat? The seeds?"
Sammy's eyes widened at that, "No! You can't do that! Apples will start growing in your belly! That's what Johnny C. told me."
"Johnny C. is an idiot," Dean said automatically, but then thought better of it, "But he is right about that. Thanks for reminding me."
Sammy nodded seriously, the core wedged between his fingers.
"You didn't eat any seeds, right?" Dean asked, trying to keep a straight face.
"Nope."
"You sure?"
"Yes," Sammy said a little uncertainly. "I mean, I think."
"I guess will know if you start pooping out apples," Dean said.
Sammy's eyes widened and he chucked the core away. Then one hand went to his belly and the other poked around in his mouth, searching for any leftover seeds. "I think I'm alright," Sammy said shakily.
After that, Dean couldn't hold his laughter in any longer and Dad had no choice but to tell Sammy that Dean was just yanking his chain, which, naturally, set of another round of buttmunch and meanie and variations thereof.
Later that night, Sammy already tucked into bed, Dean crept out into the hall and into the living room of their small apartment where Dad was watching TV.
"Dad?" Dean asked.
Dad's head turned to look at him, "What's up, dude?"
Dean stepped closer until he was next to his dad's chair, "Why did you do that today?"
Dad smiled softly, "I was waiting for you to ask," then scooted over on the chair, making room for Dean to sit next to him.
Dean jumped at the opportunity, squeezing in next to his dad.
"I just wanted to show you that no matter how good you think you've gotten at something, you never voluntarily but Sammy in danger."
"But I know that. So what else was it about?"
Dad hesitated, ran a hand through his beard. "Dean, there are some duties that are more important than any order I can ever give you. And protecting Sammy is at the top of that list. I just had to be sure you knew that."
Dean nodded then yawned, leaning into Dad's strong body, "I understand. But I didn't like it."
"You weren't supposed to."
They both fell into silence for a few moments until Dean asked, "What if I had done it?"
"I knew you wouldn't," Dad answered instantly. "But just in case, Sammy had orders to drop to the ground if you so much as pointed the crossbow at him and it was loaded with rubber arrows."
"Oh," Dean said, "So you weren't exactly that sure."
Dad laughed softly, "It never hurts to be overly cautious."
Dean only nodded in response, then closed his eyes, his father's steady breathing lulling.
"Hey, Dad?" Dean asked tiredly.
"What?"
"Does this mean there are some orders of yours that I don't have to listen to?"
John's good-natured groan brought a smile to Dean's face. "Oh, dear God, don't tell me I have to make a list."
"That'd be helpful, just so I'm sure," Dean answered sarcastically.
"Dean?"
"Yeah, Dad?"
"Go to sleep."
"Yes, sir," Dean replied, shutting his eyes again as Dad had ordered.
It's the memory of this day that comes to Dean sixteen years later, when his father leans down and whispers his last order in his ear. Dean wants to ask him what kind of order it is. One he can disobey or one he has to follow?
But it doesn't really matter either way because Dean knows as soon as his brain can process the words and apply them to reality that he won't follow them.
All he sees is a seven-year-old Sammy, an apple on his head and imaginary muscles on his arms and he knows that no matter what his father told him, no matter how heavy the crossbow gets, no matter how many times he promises Sam, his arm will never lift from his side and his finger will never squeeze the trigger.
No matter what, he won't be William Tell, perfect aim be damned.