(no subject)

Dec 25, 2010 21:36

Run the patch down the bore.
Clean the reciever and trigger assembly.
Reassemble.
Firing pin, slide, barrel.
Wipe it down and check the sights.
Reload.

It was almost a form of moving meditation for Sam. He had learned how to field strip and clean a weapon at an early age. If he had trouble sleeping after a hunt, he would break down their guns at least twice and clean them while Dean snored blissfully on in the hotel room.

He had lost count of how many times he had cleaned this gun over the last few weeks. This night, it was least three times since he woke up in a cold sweat. A bottle of whiskey sat at his elbow. Between cleanings, he would pause and take a short swallow.

He wasn’t strong; not like Dean, and not like their father.

When he closed his eyes, he could see them die. Castiel, Bobby. He could hear Dean’s bones shattering beneath his fists, even while his brother called his name.

Sam was tired. He was so tired. But when he slept, it happened all over again.

So he sat, cleaning the gun. He sat and drank and waited for the sun to come up.

*********
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