On the eighth day of Christmas, Supernatural gave me

Eight Salt-Filled Shotguns
Seven packs of band-aids
Six stripping dancers
Five random ghosts
Four fake credit cards
Three yellow-eyed demons
Two sexy brothers
And the keys to an Impala

Sammy held up the sawed-off, a small grin on his face. The rest of his first-grade class were looking at him in mingled boredom and surprise, but not even the teacher seemed a little alarmed. "My show-and-tell is a shotgun. My big brother made it, and I got to bring it in." To tell the truth, he'd snuck it into his schoolbag when they were in bed, but that wasn't any of the teacher's business.

He pumped it with a soft grunt of effort, aimed it at the stupid poster of 'no bullying' on the back wall. It wouldn't be loaded, of course, even if some of his school-mates were starting to look scared. Just for the fun of seeing their faces, he pulled the trigger.

As he wasn't prepared for the recoil, it sent him flying backwards. The poster fell apart, hit by tiny bits of... salt? Dean had put rock-salt in this gun? Sammy blinked dazedly as the students who weren't screaming burst into cheers, and the teacher grabbed the phone.

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The shotgun was taken away, but that was fine – Dad would find some way to get it back to Dean. Sammy, on the other hand, was grounded and sent to bed. And all because he just couldn't resist pulling the trigger...