Disclaimer: I do not own Psych or any of its characters. However, I do own the Psych Season 2 DVD...though that still doesn't really give me any creative rights to do anything except daydream on paper.

Chapter 1: Generations

Summer of 1985

Sixteen-year old Carlton Lassiter sat quietly on the house porch. The wind had kicked up a small dust storm that interrupted his afternoon of target practice. While he thoroughly believed that he should practice in every weather condition, using nature's obstacles to help build his adaptability to different scenarios, his targets kept blowing off of the wooden fence and Hank would be pretty upset at him if he missed and hit one of the stables. Plus it was opening weekend and the tourists hadn't all dispersed. It would be unfortunate to hit one of them as well.

Carlton played with the weight of the six-shooter in his hands, turning it over and over until his hand understood the significance of each screw. He deftly withdrew a single bullet and ran through the drill again, learning to recognize the subtle changes. "Your gun is a tool," Hank had told him. "Every craftsman must learn to appreciate his tools." That rule applied to choosing the proper saddle, hammering a nail and even cleaning the barn. "You do a job, you see it through." Hank was always instilling nuggets of life's lessons for him. He tried his best to remember them all though he admitted that most of them didn't make any sense, though he reasoned that they would come in handy when he was old enough to know better.

He had worked his way down to just one bullet; one single bullet encompassed in a chamber of metal and yet he could still sense its presence. He closed his eyes to memorize the significance of the solitary piece of lead. It was as subtle to him as rolling a coin through his knuckles or shifting his weight in the saddle of his favorite paint. He held his hand out evenly, trying to feel which way the weight shifted, not balancing the gun but letting the gun find a balance in his hand.

"You praying, Binky or are you trying to guess which chamber it's in?" Hank's voice boomed from just behind him. Carlton looked up quickly then struggled to stand to his feet. Hank stopped him. "Don't quit on my account. I'm just out for some fresh air."

Only Hank would breathe in fresh air during a sand storm. The man was tougher than a leather boot and Carlton longed to be just like him one day. He closed his eyes again and tried to rediscover the weight. He heard Hank draw a breath then slowly slide to the space beside him.

"You got it," Hank asked in a whisper.

Carlton paused another moment, furrowing his brow then opening his eyes to a squint. "I think so." He hesitated then nodded to himself confidently, "Fourth chamber."

Hank took the gun gently into his hands and opened the barrel.

Carlton knew that he was wrong, the instant that the barrel saw daylight. "Oh, the fifth," he lamented, his voice squeaking. He dropped his head into his hands and chided himself quietly. He felt Hank's heavy hand pat him on the back. "I thought I had it that time."

"Well, you were close," Hank said, letting the bullet slide from the chamber then closing it completely. "And close is good enough for horse shoes." He gave a knowing wink then turned the gun over in his hands. The classic piece always brought a gleam to the old man's eye. Carlton loved watching Hank clean and polish his guns, especially the Peacemaker. He always looked like the real sheriff of Old Sonora when he was carrying it. "I'd like for this old girl to be yours one day…"

Hank's words were just above a whisper. They seemed to come and go with the stirring of the wind. For a while, Carlton wasn't certain that he had heard him.

"When you're ready." There was another firm pat on Carlton's back and a warm smile. "Now go get your stuff, your mom should be here any minute."

"Yes, sir." Carlton stood quickly and dashed into the house. He had neatly packed his bag after breakfast that morning and left it near his bedroom door. On his way back through the kitchen, he grabbed his apple and thermos from the fridge. The drive home from Old Sonora was always a long one and left him famished along the way. His mom seldom had the time or the money to stop for lunch or a snack so Hank's provisions were always appreciated.

Carlton tossed his items into his pack and made his way to the door. He could see his mom's car through the screen but paused when he saw the figure standing next to it.

Michael Lassiter was well over six feet tall though his thick work jacket always made him look bigger. He stood next to the vehicle with his hands in his pockets and a scowl on his face. His wife was called into work over the weekend and solicited him to pick Carlton up from Hank's.

Carlton swallowed painfully and began to feel a pang in his stomach. He wanted to run back to his room and crawl under the bed. Better yet, he wanted to retrieve one of Hank's cast iron cooking pans or the stable whip. Leaving Hank and riding home with his father was the last thing in the world that he wanted to do. But as Hank would say, "Everyman has his business and the honest man tends to his own." So with a heavy hand and a deep sigh, he pushed the door open and joined Hank on the front porch.

He watched his father glare at him from the driveway. There was the slight sway in his posture that only meant one thing; he had been drinking again.

"You got everything," Michael yelled, in the half drunken slur that only promised a dizzying ride home.

Carlton nodded slowly then stepped off of the porch, turning to give Hank one last look. The older man winked and nodded him on. As Carlton drew nearer to his father he began to assess his level of toxicity. He couldn't smell the alcohol but he saw drops of it on his father's pants, a sure sign that the man had been drinking on the way over.

"Put your stuff in the back and keep that mud off my seats."

Carlton nodded and moved to open the back door. He felt a sudden pain on the back of his head that jerked him forward.

"You can't talk anymore?"

The slap brought a tear to the teenager's eye. It wasn't that it hurt; in fact he stopped feeling the pain of his dad's slaps and punches all together. Even his father's words didn't hurt him like they used to. What really hurt was that his dad chose to behave this way publicly. Why did Hank have to watch his dad yell and fuss and betray the oath of a man?

He pulled on the back door again and placed his bag inside. He could feel Hank's eyes on him, watching protectively. He knew that Hank wouldn't let any real danger come to him but Hank also had enough respect to let him handle his own business. Michael was his father, not Hank and no matter how many times he wished that the roles were reversed, the facts were the facts and an honest man doesn't ignore them. With a heavy sigh he slid into the passenger's seat and buckled his seat belt. He watched Hank's reassuring gaze through the dusty windshield. Hank's eyes were locked on his the entire time the car pulled away from the driveway. He stood there like a solid rock, a guardian who promised to chase away any hurt that the long week would bring.

Carlton stared longingly at Old Sonora. The drive back with his father was going to be a long and painful one. He dropped his head against the headrest and let his attention slip out the passenger's window. His dad had turned up his favorite radio station and retrieved his hidden bottle of beer. If Carlton was lucky, and he never was, his father would forget that he was sitting next to him and simply drive along in silence. He wished desperately for that. He wished that the car ride was over. He wished that he could simply disappear. But more than anything, he wished that he could fast-forward through the next week and arrive at another Sonora weekend.

T-minus five days and counting.