A/N: Based on this supernaturalimagine Tumblr blog post:
post/62784443799/submitted-by-anon
"Imagine Dean teaching you how to shoot a gun/kill a demon."
In the few days since I'd convinced my boss to let me become a roaming reporter and sub-let my apartment in Philly, I had moved to Kansas and into what the boys called the bunker. It turned out it was just as well I'd left most of my belongings in storage in England, as the only form of transport available was the slightly beaten-up Impala Dean drove. It had a spacious back seat and even leg room to spare for Sam in the front (I'd measured – his hips were at the level of my waist), but since the boot was full of guns and salt there wasn't too much room to move belongings around. To be fair to the old girl, she drove well considering what Dean put her through, and the only complaint I had about her was the stereo. Or rather the selection of cassette tapes stored under the front passenger seat. I consoled myself by listening to soft jazz over my headphones in the back seat, attempting to drown out AC/DC with Nat 'King' Cole, an attempt which would have failed if I hadn't begun singing along. I hadn't noticed that Dean had turned off the stereo until I realised the car had come to a halt at the side of the road and I found I was still proclaiming that love was all that I could give to them, and that love was made for me and them at the top of my voice.
"Uh…what?" I blushed so hard my face clashed with the colour of my hair as Dean craned around in his seat to look at me more closely.
"N-nothing. C-carry on." I sank lower in my seat.
"No, you can sing?"
"Well why shouldn't I be able to sing?"
"It's not that you shouldn't. It's just unexpected. I like it." Sam turned on him.
"You like it? You like smooth jazz and Nat 'King' Cole now?"
"Just because I choose to listen to driving music doesn't mean I can't appreciate other types, Sammy." Dean was trying to be aloof but he was failing miserably.
"Dude, you never said you liked jazz."
"Why would I? I knew I'd get a reaction like that!" I was sat hunkered down in my seat, listening to them bickering companionably when Cas suddenly appeared in the space next to me.
"What the fuck?!" I screeched with considerable volume and scrambled against the door. "Cas! Jesus Christ!" I'd calmly taken the news that Cas was an angel, but I hadn't quite got used to his habit of popping in and out of existence.
"I'm sorry." He looked blandly through the windshield. "Is there a reason the car is stationary?" Dean, who'd whipped his head around faster than I would have thought possible when I'd screamed, massaged his neck and scowled foully at Cas.
"Yes, there was. You really need to call before you do that, Cas."
"But I already know your location, it makes sense for me to come directly to you."
"Fuck sake, Cas! You nearly gave Marie a heart attack and you've definitely given me a cricked neck." Cas reached out two fingers and pressed them to the back of Dean's neck. A faint white glow emanated from the two of them and Dean moved his neck easily. "Ok, fine, you're forgiven, but you can't just turn up like that." He started the engine again and Back in Black pounded out of the speakers. I resigned myself to his music choice and put my headphones away.
After a couple of days at the bunker it became clear that I would have almost no time for writing for the paper; luckily my revised contract was for a weekly letters page in the Saturday issue giving me plenty of time to clean up after the boys and make the sparse building more homely. Sam tried to resist my attempts, but Dean actively supported my endeavours, especially when they involved my presence in the kitchen. Although he was unwilling to show it, Dean was equally at ease in the kitchen as he was in the garage, and too often I'd had to tell him to wash up between tinkering with Baby's engine and coming in to help me bake.
It was during a lazy Sunday a few weeks into my stay that Dean brought up the subject of hunting. He and Sam would often go off for a few days at a time leaving me in the bunker – Dean liked to play a game of spot-the-difference between leaving and coming back – calling in at least once a day to let me know they hadn't died. Dean knew I enjoyed my periods of solitude; we'd had plenty of opportunities to talk while waiting for things to cook – I'd perch on the counter top and he'd lean against the one opposite – but we'd never discussed the skills involved in hunting until that time. The moment he chose to bring it up wasn't the most opportune one – two timers had just gone off and I'd completely lost track of the recipe I was following, so I was running around the kitchen like a headless chicken scrambling to get everything together.
"So…how would you feel about some training?" He said it nonchalantly, still leaning against the work surface. I stopped mid rush and felt as though I must look like a particularly startled Disney character with drooping, full hands and mouth agape.
"Dean!" I spluttered, stalling. "Can I just…?" He nodded, grinning.
Once the pie in question was safely topped, pricked and basted, and put into the oven I gave his question some serious thought. Wiping my floury hands on the tea towel he held out for me I tilted my head at him.
"Why would you ask me that?"
"I just thought…I know you like being on your own here…but maybe you'd like to come with us, see what we do from a more experienced point of view?" He sounded unreasonably nervous.
"I-I'd like that very much, but you know how nervous I get around guns."
"That's stage one then. Getting Marie comfortable around guns. Then we can get on to you actually shooting them."
"Let's not get too far ahead of ourselves, Dean." Sam poked his head into the kitchen.
"That smells really, really good. What is it?"
"Cherry pie." I looked smugly at Dean, who grinned back.
"Nice. Dude, I think we have a lead."
"Now?" He whined, uncharacteristically childish.
"Yes, now. Well, tomorrow anyway. You can have your pie. For once."
Dean, having eaten virtually the entire pie by himself, insisted on a nap before he'd let me near a gun. I didn't mind, particularly. Guns had always made me nervous; in England possession of guns was highly regulated by law, and really the only people with them were the police, farmers and posh types who went hunting. Even then, they were only shotguns and rifles...things which posed significantly less danger to the person wielding them than the person at the other end. I just knew that with my luck and a hand gun I'd be the only person in danger.
When he eventually woke up (after several hours) and inhaled three mugs of coffee in short succession, he led me to a chamber I'd not yet been in. This was just as well, as it could quite easily have been described as my worst nightmare. Guns of all shapes and sizes lined the walls, and I flinched towards Dean and the centre of the room. He dropped a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it gently.
"Are you ok?" He sounded genuinely concerned for me, so I shook myself and nodded as bravely as I could.
"I'll be fine." He squeezed my shoulder again and wandered around the room, choosing a selection of guns for me to try. "I'm not so sure I'm fine!" The words escaped before I could reign them back. He raised his eyebrows at me and backed off a couple of steps. "Th-that's a bit better, thank you."
"We need to go into the other room anyway. I'll go first and you...come in when you're ready." I took a few steadying breaths and closed my eyes. What was the worst that could happen? No. That was a bad place to go. I shook my head firmly and opened my eyes again. Both Sam and Dean were standing watching me with expressions of confusion.
"What? I needed to give myself a pep talk!" Sam smirked and winked at Dean.
"You'll have your hands full with this one."
"Eh, she'll be fine." He came back into the room and took hold of my hand, and led me slowly into the adjoining chamber. It had been fitted out as a gun range with targets and a special lining on the walls which would prevent bullets bouncing back off them. He walked me to the table on which he'd placed the guns. I followed reluctantly, dragging my feet and pulling a discontented expression. "Marie, you'll be fine, you hear me? You won't hurt me, and you won't hurt you. I swear." I gave him a weakly dismissive look and swallowed hard.
"Let's get this over with." My voice came out rather more hoarse than I'd intended, and I winced.
"Are you sure you don't want a moment? Or a glass of water?"
"I'm fine, Dean. The sooner we start, the sooner we finish and I can get back to a life which doesn't involve handling guns any more than necessary." He gave me an odd look, and shrugged.
"Ok then, we'll start small."
"Are you sure that's a good idea?!" I squeaked at him.
"Yes. Less kick-back, less length to control." I tried desperately to hold on to the nervous giggles which threatened to bubble up uncontrollably. "Generally easier to handle." It was far too late by this point for me to even think of regaining any control over myself, and I began laughing so hard I slumped on the floor, shoulders shaking and tears streaming down my face. "Jesus, Marie. What's wrong with you?" Sam came running in.
"What the...Marie?"
"Hang-hang on a-a moment." I tried desperately to control the spasms of laughter shaking me. After a few deep breaths, I thought I had the situation under control. "Sorry. Nerves plus a sense of humour which belongs in the gutter. Phew." I exhaled and closed my eyes for a moment. "Ok, I'm alright now."
"I bloody well hope so." Dean looked nervous for the first time as I took my place beside him. "Normally I'd give you ear muffs, but all ours have gone missing. It will be loud."
He put the gun in my hands and I looked at it. Vague memories of a certain episode of Torchwood surfaced, and I pointed the gun away from me, more downwards than up, balanced in one hand, the other supporting my wrist. I looked to Dean for confirmation, and he had a look of pride on his face.
"Good, well done. Always keep it pointing away from you, and away from anyone on your side. Ok, snap the safety off - good. Aim for the centre target..." He moved to stand close behind me, his limbs fitting around mine like a shell around a nut, his hands covering mine and directing my fingers. "Take a breath - and fire." The bullet somehow hit the centre of the target, and my limbs drooped with relief, some self-preservation instinct directing the muzzle of the gun away from my feet. "Super." He was standing so close his voice was vibrating through my back. "Let's try that again." We repeated the exercise a few times with him supporting me, and each time the bullets met the centre of the target. "You ready to fly solo?" There was a laugh in his voice and I smiled as I met his eyes.
"Go on, then." He took a step backwards, and I lined up as he'd shown me, took a breath and pulled the trigger, resisting the urge to close my eyes. Much to my surprise the bullet flew true and struck the dead centre of the target. Snapping the safety back on, I whirled around to look at him, elation filling me. His eyes were full of pride and a smile stretched across his face.
"I'm impressed!" He closed the gap between us and took the gun from me. "Enough for now?"
"I think I'm ready for a tea break!" I laughed and sagged against him. "Is there always such an adrenaline rush?"
"You get used to it." He wrapped an arm around my shoulders. "Well done, though."
"Thanks."