(no subject)
Dean remembers his first deer hunt, how small he'd felt with that big gun in his hands, how afraid he'd been, all alone in the woods with a weapon he hardly knew how to fire, let alone aim.
It'd been Sam who'd brought down the deer that day. Sam, who wasn't supposed to be there at all, let alone know to use a gun, and Dean remembers how that first fear had been forgotten, how quickly the new one slid into place - his baby brother, armed and aiming.
Head starts aside, they're all killers now, but it's been a while since Dean did this - laid out a shit ton of his father's weapons to select which one would bring an animal down fast, which one would do the least damage to the flesh and still kill. Time was, there were no fewer than six able bodies bringing fresh meat to the Winchester, but now they're dead or gone, and hell, it's not like Dean can't use the gory distraction.
In the end, it's not the Desert Eagle he chooses, or the Glock or the Colt. In the end, it's not even one of John's, it's one of Angua's, still leaning next to her crossbow on the porch.
Dean hefts the bow in his hands. It's light, and though it was clearly made for smaller hands, when he brings it into position, it feels right. At least it does until he sets an arrow to the string and fires it, missing his makeshift target by an entire foot.
"Son of a bitch," he mutters. It's not even a small target, it's a big one, hauled over from a batch of similar ones by the Green Arrow Estates where someone must've once held classes, but Dean doesn't hit it with the next arrow, either, or the one after that.
He hasn't had a drink all day, and he's feeling it, sweating too much beneath the glaring sun, fingers unsteady and aim unsure. Wiping a hand over the back of his neck, Dean does his best to concentrate and tries again.
He doesn't hit the target with the fifth arrow, and when the sixth lands wide, Dean scowls. Tucked into his jeans, the Eagle's a heavy weight in the small of his back, pressed up tight like a hand to guide him, and Dean takes the comfort it's offering, swings it out and aims, fires a beast of a bullet that blows a hole in the target a foot wide.
The Winchester's patrons just might have to take their meat extra tenderized for a while.
[ooc: Dean's in front of his hut by the big waterfall. On the porch is John Winchester's weapons chest left open - your pup will not make it within five feet of it without being very rudely stopped]
It'd been Sam who'd brought down the deer that day. Sam, who wasn't supposed to be there at all, let alone know to use a gun, and Dean remembers how that first fear had been forgotten, how quickly the new one slid into place - his baby brother, armed and aiming.
Head starts aside, they're all killers now, but it's been a while since Dean did this - laid out a shit ton of his father's weapons to select which one would bring an animal down fast, which one would do the least damage to the flesh and still kill. Time was, there were no fewer than six able bodies bringing fresh meat to the Winchester, but now they're dead or gone, and hell, it's not like Dean can't use the gory distraction.
In the end, it's not the Desert Eagle he chooses, or the Glock or the Colt. In the end, it's not even one of John's, it's one of Angua's, still leaning next to her crossbow on the porch.
Dean hefts the bow in his hands. It's light, and though it was clearly made for smaller hands, when he brings it into position, it feels right. At least it does until he sets an arrow to the string and fires it, missing his makeshift target by an entire foot.
"Son of a bitch," he mutters. It's not even a small target, it's a big one, hauled over from a batch of similar ones by the Green Arrow Estates where someone must've once held classes, but Dean doesn't hit it with the next arrow, either, or the one after that.
He hasn't had a drink all day, and he's feeling it, sweating too much beneath the glaring sun, fingers unsteady and aim unsure. Wiping a hand over the back of his neck, Dean does his best to concentrate and tries again.
He doesn't hit the target with the fifth arrow, and when the sixth lands wide, Dean scowls. Tucked into his jeans, the Eagle's a heavy weight in the small of his back, pressed up tight like a hand to guide him, and Dean takes the comfort it's offering, swings it out and aims, fires a beast of a bullet that blows a hole in the target a foot wide.
The Winchester's patrons just might have to take their meat extra tenderized for a while.
[ooc: Dean's in front of his hut by the big waterfall. On the porch is John Winchester's weapons chest left open - your pup will not make it within five feet of it without being very rudely stopped]
