Author's Notes: Alright, so. I suck at doing fics. I had the last two lines of these all planned out, and I totally went in a different direction. And also, I totally did this in fifteen minutes after wanted to find out what to do for like, a month. How weird is that?
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There was just something unhealthy about making an eight year old shoot a gun.
Dean could understand himself being taught; he was twelve and knew the reasons why he had to learn. Eight year olds... Sammy didn't even understand why he needed to learn it. For all he knew, this was to help him on his math test tomorrow.
"C'mon Sammy! Focus! Hit the target!" the gruff voice of his father yelled out, watching as Sammy (small, stout, naive) try repeatedly to hit the makeshift bulls-eye on the bale of hay. Dean could only watch as his brother was continually berated for not being able to hit the target.
Dad's orders, he had to tell himself, never stray away from dad's orders.
Couldn't they have waited a few years, though? Sammy would be older then, and he was understand why this was needed.
"SAM! You're not even listening!" His father grabbed the gun away from Sam and disassembled it. "Maybe some PT will make you focus more. We start again tomorrow." His father then turned around and stomped into the house. "Dean! Make sure he does his sets!"
Dad's orders, he said to himself as he sat by Sam, never stray away from dad's orders.
Sammy had tears of frustration in his eyes, though he was trying hard to hide them. Dean almost regretted telling him that crying was for babies.
"Hey," he said quietly. "If you do your sets tonight, I'll get Dad to cut you some slack tomorrow, alright?"
"Promise?" Sam whispered, trying not to show through his voice that he wanted to cry.
Dean smiled sadly, and ran a hand through his little brother's hair, "Yeah, man, I promise."