A/N: And now, Dean's sniper rifle.
I was born in West Germany. Been in the States for about four years now. Dean could have named me Hans, or Gruber, after the bad guy in Die Hard. I got lucky. He calls me Bruce instead.
Uh…Bruce Willis?
Geez, you need to get out more.
I'm a specialist, a Heckler-Koch MSG3 sniper rifle. You don't really need to know any more than that. What you should know is that I'm the best there is for long distance wet work, kids, and let's face it, when I get pulled out of the trunk things usually end bloody. I trust Dean to aim me at whatever needs to be taken out. I have a job to do, and I do it extremely well.
Wasn't always like that.
I came to the states by way of sunny Mexico. I was way out in the middle of damn near nowhere, with one of John Winchester's old Marine buddies, this idiot by the name of Hamilton Pierce.
Hammy was nuts. He'd be drunk and pretty well toasted by ten in the morning, nearly each and every day. Then he'd load me up and take shots at damn near everything that moved. Even I knew that was a damn waste of my talents. I always jerked whenever he aimed me at anything living.
Hey, wasn't that dog or that bird's fault this jackass got drunk. I don't have a problem doing my job, but you gotta draw the line somewhere. He'd curse at me all the time, like I really cared about that. Getting called a worthless sumbitch kinda loses the desired effect the fifth or six time around anyway.
Anyway, the day the boys pulled up I heard them before I saw them. That girl of Dean's rumbles like she's real proud of herself, and that got me curious. I saw Dean first. He looked around, eyes nearly gone to slits, taking inventory on everything.
Sam got out of the car next, and he was looking real pissy about something. Found out later on they'd been hunting chupacabra down here. Sam kept picking at his clothes, and I knew he was picking chuppie bits off. I also knew the kid probably wanted to take a nice long shower as soon as he could. Chupacabra are filthy bastards. The smell alone will kill ya.
I'm not religious, but I think it was meant for me to leave that day. Instead of throwing me into a corner like he usually did, Hammy stuck me up on that wall mount in the living room, over the fireplace.
The front door was wide open. Dean could see me from where he stood on the porch. He took one look at me and started grinning from ear to ear. "Damn. I gotta get me one'a those."
"Yeah?" Hammy swayed back and forth like a sapling in a high wind. "Damn thing's no good. Can't hit the side of a barn with it."
"You mind if I take a look?"
That's what I love about this kid. You never handle another hunter's weapons without asking permission first. I never had the pleasure of meeting John Winchester, but he taught his sons right.
Hammy nodded. Dean walked in, took me down and did a weapons check on me, quick and efficient. Don't mean to sound gay, but damn, dude's got good hands. Damn good ones. Last time I was handled like that was back at the Heckler-Koch plant in West Germany.
Sam had this look on his face like he didn't even know why Dean would even bother. Next thing I knew we were outside.
"Dude, set 'em up for me, will you?" Dean muttered. Sam nodded and put five beer cans on that wooden fence in the backyard.
We nailed all five.
Hammy sold me for two hundred dollars American. Hey, I'm worth at least ten times that much, but Hammy probably figured Dean didn't have that much on him, and besides the booze supply in the house was getting low.
Twenty minutes later, Dean slid me into my case with the scope, and after that I met the folks in the trunk. We got along just fine, from the very first day.
Some months later we met Andy Gallagher. I was shocked when Dean gave us away to that little goofball. Clint was all for pistol whipping the dumb bastard but he said Dean didn't want to. I wondered about that. Maybe getting obi-wanned by that little sleaze had after-effects.
Things went from bad to worse, quick, fast, and in a hurry. That night Dean's looking through my scope at Ansem, and the next thing I know Dean sticks my muzzle underneath his chin instead. His eyes went blank. He didn't feel right to me.
His finger tightened on my trigger, and you may as well put a fork in both of us, 'cause I knew we were done. It's one thing to jerk and throw someone's aim off, but the way Dean had me jammed into the underside of his jaw was too tight. If I went off, he was dead. Period.
I still don't know what I would have done. I'm glad I never had to find out. The patron saint of hunters must've decided to cut us both a huge break, because in the next minute Andy killed Ansem down below, and Dean blinked less than a second later. I could tell he was back when he sat back and pointed me down at the ground.
Angelina, Clint and Jerry gave me a pass on that one. I didn't get snubbed the way Mudd did after Sam popped Dean a good one at Roosevelt Asylum with that rock salt. I like everybody in the trunk, but they're a little too unreasonable sometimes.
What? You want more? Real nosy, aren't ya?
Okay. Hammy bit the dust three weeks after I left. A band of pixies put him down for good.
Death by pixie. Now that's damned embarrassing.
………
What? This is over, right? So why are you sitting there staring at me like that?
Oh.
You want me to say it, don't you?
All right, damn it. Don't suppose there's any harm. Dean says it sometimes too.
Yippie kai yai yay, motherfucker.
There. Ya happy now?
Who's next? Beats the heck outta me. Two more next week.
