Summary: The sight of his brother with the gun in his hands stops his heart cold when he walks into the room. Pre-series wee!chesters.
(Okay, I admit it. This one kinda sucks.)
Young Guns
The sight of his brother with the gun in his hands stops his heart cold when he walks into the room.
He'd slept in, not an uncommon thing, since school just got out for the summer. Dad's out of town again, working. He's looking for the monster that killed Mom. Dean wishes (secretly), that Dad could stay with them more, but he quickly quashes the selfish thought down. He then wishes that he could go out with his father to kill monsters, be a superhero just like him.
But Sammy should never, ever have to know about the things that go bump in the dark.
And Sammy should never, ever, not in a million years, ever have to hold a gun.
Which is why Dean completely, absolutely, positively freaks out when he sees Sammy holding the shotgun that hot, sticky Tuesday morning.
"Sammy! Put that down!"
He's over there in a flash, wrenching the gun (which is actually taller than his little brother) out of Sammy's hands.
Sammy cries out, and Dean feels the remorse stab his chest, but he hardens his heart against the tears.
"You never, ever touch this, do you understand, Sammy?" he says, holding on tight to his brother's arm. Sammy's eyes are huge, and the tears are welling up, threatening to spill over. "Sammy. Do not touch the gun. Ever."
A big, round tear breaks free and rolls down Sammy's cheek, still chubby with baby fat. "I'm sorry, Dean," he whimpers.
And that just about breaks Dean. He props the gun back up against the wall where it belongs and wraps both arms around his brother. "I didn't mean to scare ya, buddy, but you scared me when I saw you with that gun, alright? It's dangerous."
Sammy sniffles into Dean's shirt. "But you 'n' Daddy hold it all th' time. And th' other guns, too. Why can't I?"
"Well we're older'n you, that's why." Dean pulls away and looks into his brother's wet eyes with his most serious expression. "And we gotta protect you."
Sammy frowns. "That's what I was tryin' to do. I wanna protect you, too, Dean! 'Cuz you takes real good care of me." Sammy can be serious, too, and he wants Dean to know that.
Dean scoffs. "That's my job, dummy." He ruffles the unruly mop of chestnut hair. "You don't have to protect me. Dad does that." He goes to the kitchen and pulls out a box of cereal. "You just concentrate on eating your Lucky Charms and gettin' tall."
The frown's still on Sammy's face when Dean looks back up at his brother. "Sammy. Breakfast."
"But I wanna help," the kid says, arms crossed and pouting with everything he's got.
Dean sighs and goes over to his baby brother. Crouching down to his level, he says, "Okay, you wanna help me? Then don't touch the guns and the knives, alright? It scares me when you do that because you could get hurt. And then it would be my fault."
He waits for his brother to just get it, to understand, so that Dean can relax a little and not worry every minute of every day that Sammy's going to try to get at all the guns stashed in the motel room.
He waits until Sammy nods and says, "Okay, Dean. I won't touch the guns."
"Or the knives," Dean prompts.
"Or the knives," Sammy repeats dutifully. "Can I have the prize in the cereal?"
Dean straightens and musses his brother's hair again, just 'cause. "Yeah, sure."
At least now he can rest a little easier. Sammy said he wouldn't touch the weapons, and he won't. Baby brother might be able to work the puppy-dog eyes on his big brother for all he's worth, but Dean has a few tricks up his sleeve, too. Any threats of getting in trouble because of Sammy would make his little brother doubly sure not to do whatever it is that might be constituted as trouble-making.
So Dean lets Sammy have the paper red-and-blue 3-D glasses that come with the cereal to be used on the funny drawings on the box. Sammy's safe.
A year later, he's helping Dad set up beer cans so Sammy can practice shooting. He's scared, deep down in his gut, and he hates the feeling.