the gun show (gen)
title: the gun show
rating: g, gen
words: 1,126
warnings/spoilers: none
summary: he sights down the barrels of sakos and remingtons and of course winchesters, his namesake gun and a thing of beauty.
notes: there is a gun and knife show in escanaba but it's in june, not february. also, i have never been. but i had an image of dean in a red and black plaid coat and a hat with earflaps, and then i pictured the winchesters living in michigan's upper peninsula, so. beta thanks to wrenlet and researchgrrrl, even tho i didn't take all their suggestions, and the bit about chinese ammo i learned from lukecuddy.
Dean is two weeks past his sixteenth birthday, but his fake license says he's eighteen, and it's good enough to get him into the gun show in Escanaba by himself. Sammy wanted to come too, always following him, Dean's eleven-year-old shadow, but Dean wasn't sure about his ID and promised if it works for him today, he'll bring Sammy tomorrow. And anyway, someone needs to be home in case Dad calls.
It's taken Dean years to be able to leave his brother alone, and he's not quite sure why it's ok now, except that the lady next door has a daughter with an obsessive crush on Sam that embarrasses the hell out of him, and if anyone can keep an eye on him, it's her. Dean will probably catch hell from his father, but this counts as research, doesn't it? Can't he use the gun show as field work?
He wanders up and down the aisles admiring the handguns, Glocks and Sig Sauers and Colts, semi-automatics and reproduction six-shooters, the hunting rifles and shotguns in all their various barrel lengths and calibers, rifles that can take down an elephant and rifles scaled for kids. He might have learned to shoot with one of those kid-sized guns if he'd grown up around here, if his father had taken him deer hunting instead of teaching him how to drop a hellhound without getting bitten first.
He sights down the barrels of Sakos and Remingtons and of course Winchesters, his namesake gun and a thing of beauty. He strokes the walnut stock of a 12-gauge and when the dealer asks "You a deer hunter, son?" Dean answers "Yes, sir" almost automatically, and then shuts up. He's a decent liar and he knows he looks the part, more or less, in his worn heavy boots and Dad's plaid hunter's coat, but he doesn't know the first thing about deer hunting, doubts his ability to bluff his way through a chat with a professional, and figures the less he says, the better. The Winchester dealer doesn't need to know what he's been taught to track and trap and kill.
Because this is deer hunting country. Bear. Elk. These men hunt and trap animals they can eat, creatures whose heads they can mount on their walls. They don't understand - and couldn't fight - werewolves and nagas and Spring-Heeled Jacks, hodags and skinwalkers and any one of a number of things that can possess you or suck your soul from your body or merely cut you open and leave you to bleed to death. Dean feels a kind of comfort among hunters, among men who understand guns like he does, and at the same time he knows things they never will, has helped hunt and kill things they would never believe, and knows that even as he passes for one of them, in a way he really doesn't belong.
Which doesn't mean he can't still admire the weaponry on display, and can't still talk to vendors and dealers and a guy from the NRA, can't still argue with someone trying to sell him Chinese ammo. When Dean tells the vendor the Chinese shorten their rounds to save money and he's not about to buy ammo that will make his gun jam every single time, the guy looks almost offended. Dean doesn't see the point in arguing, and isn't going to buy anything anyway, so he walks away.
He looks at scopes and sniper rifles and hunting gear - vests, camouflage pants, outerwear for crazy people who like to hunt ducks in bad weather - bullets and shells and buckshot, beef jerky and venison jerky and things made from elk horn. He checks out the knives, big hunting knives and Bowie knives and Swiss Army knives thick with tools, skinning knives and knives with too much decoration on the blades and handles. Dean doesn't have much use for decorative knives - if it can't kill or at least maim something, he doesn't need it.
There's a woman selling Native American crafts, moccasins, beaded leather knife sheaths and belts, buckskin outfits with too much fringe, dreamcatchers. The dreamcatchers are pretty and seem to be handmade, and Dean runs his fingers over the spiderwebbed sinew, admiring the different sizes and the colors of the feathers and beads hanging from them. As he's mentally counting the money in his wallet he realizes he's about to buy one, even though he'd probably bust a gut laughing if Sammy brought one of these things home. You protect yourself with salt in the doorway and on the windowsill, with a shotgun and a big knife. A willow hoop with a web knotted in the center isn't going to save you from, well, anything.
But it might help you sleep better, and they know all about holy water, don't they, and an exorcism is really just words. Not all their weapons are sharp and steel. So who's to say a little dreamcatcher with some feathers and beads tied to a couple strips of leather can't offer you some security? Dean doesn't look at his motivations too closely - he doesn't really look at them at all - but he counts out his money for the vendor, and she wraps the dreamcatcher in tissue paper and puts it in a bag for him, and he tucks it under his arm and thanks her and walks off.
He makes another pass down the aisles, and since he's already scoped out the place and gotten a feel for it, this time he's comfortable talking to vendors about their weapons. He hefts rifles and tests pump action shotguns and fingers both wooden and fiberglass stocks; he examines magazines and chambers and pulls triggers of unloaded guns. He asks questions and takes mental notes, and explains when pressed that he doesn't have the money today, he's really just looking, thanks. When asked, he says his daddy taught him how to hunt, they're new to the area, what's the hunting like? He admits he's never bagged a deer but he has shot wolves, and then he warms to the role he's taken on and says he's a pretty good tracker but his favorite game is blonde and blue-eyed with legs to here, and he winks and the dealer he's talking to chuckles.
He gets a soda from concessions on his way out, and takes his dreamcatcher and his internal notes home. He'll report to Dad who can give Caleb a call if there's anything they want or need. Tomorrow he'll bring Sammy back and show him the wide variety of guns for sale in the world, and coincidentally remind his little brother how to hold a shotgun properly, because the kid's stance is for shit.
rating: g, gen
words: 1,126
warnings/spoilers: none
summary: he sights down the barrels of sakos and remingtons and of course winchesters, his namesake gun and a thing of beauty.
notes: there is a gun and knife show in escanaba but it's in june, not february. also, i have never been. but i had an image of dean in a red and black plaid coat and a hat with earflaps, and then i pictured the winchesters living in michigan's upper peninsula, so. beta thanks to wrenlet and researchgrrrl, even tho i didn't take all their suggestions, and the bit about chinese ammo i learned from lukecuddy.
Dean is two weeks past his sixteenth birthday, but his fake license says he's eighteen, and it's good enough to get him into the gun show in Escanaba by himself. Sammy wanted to come too, always following him, Dean's eleven-year-old shadow, but Dean wasn't sure about his ID and promised if it works for him today, he'll bring Sammy tomorrow. And anyway, someone needs to be home in case Dad calls.
It's taken Dean years to be able to leave his brother alone, and he's not quite sure why it's ok now, except that the lady next door has a daughter with an obsessive crush on Sam that embarrasses the hell out of him, and if anyone can keep an eye on him, it's her. Dean will probably catch hell from his father, but this counts as research, doesn't it? Can't he use the gun show as field work?
He wanders up and down the aisles admiring the handguns, Glocks and Sig Sauers and Colts, semi-automatics and reproduction six-shooters, the hunting rifles and shotguns in all their various barrel lengths and calibers, rifles that can take down an elephant and rifles scaled for kids. He might have learned to shoot with one of those kid-sized guns if he'd grown up around here, if his father had taken him deer hunting instead of teaching him how to drop a hellhound without getting bitten first.
He sights down the barrels of Sakos and Remingtons and of course Winchesters, his namesake gun and a thing of beauty. He strokes the walnut stock of a 12-gauge and when the dealer asks "You a deer hunter, son?" Dean answers "Yes, sir" almost automatically, and then shuts up. He's a decent liar and he knows he looks the part, more or less, in his worn heavy boots and Dad's plaid hunter's coat, but he doesn't know the first thing about deer hunting, doubts his ability to bluff his way through a chat with a professional, and figures the less he says, the better. The Winchester dealer doesn't need to know what he's been taught to track and trap and kill.
Because this is deer hunting country. Bear. Elk. These men hunt and trap animals they can eat, creatures whose heads they can mount on their walls. They don't understand - and couldn't fight - werewolves and nagas and Spring-Heeled Jacks, hodags and skinwalkers and any one of a number of things that can possess you or suck your soul from your body or merely cut you open and leave you to bleed to death. Dean feels a kind of comfort among hunters, among men who understand guns like he does, and at the same time he knows things they never will, has helped hunt and kill things they would never believe, and knows that even as he passes for one of them, in a way he really doesn't belong.
Which doesn't mean he can't still admire the weaponry on display, and can't still talk to vendors and dealers and a guy from the NRA, can't still argue with someone trying to sell him Chinese ammo. When Dean tells the vendor the Chinese shorten their rounds to save money and he's not about to buy ammo that will make his gun jam every single time, the guy looks almost offended. Dean doesn't see the point in arguing, and isn't going to buy anything anyway, so he walks away.
He looks at scopes and sniper rifles and hunting gear - vests, camouflage pants, outerwear for crazy people who like to hunt ducks in bad weather - bullets and shells and buckshot, beef jerky and venison jerky and things made from elk horn. He checks out the knives, big hunting knives and Bowie knives and Swiss Army knives thick with tools, skinning knives and knives with too much decoration on the blades and handles. Dean doesn't have much use for decorative knives - if it can't kill or at least maim something, he doesn't need it.
There's a woman selling Native American crafts, moccasins, beaded leather knife sheaths and belts, buckskin outfits with too much fringe, dreamcatchers. The dreamcatchers are pretty and seem to be handmade, and Dean runs his fingers over the spiderwebbed sinew, admiring the different sizes and the colors of the feathers and beads hanging from them. As he's mentally counting the money in his wallet he realizes he's about to buy one, even though he'd probably bust a gut laughing if Sammy brought one of these things home. You protect yourself with salt in the doorway and on the windowsill, with a shotgun and a big knife. A willow hoop with a web knotted in the center isn't going to save you from, well, anything.
But it might help you sleep better, and they know all about holy water, don't they, and an exorcism is really just words. Not all their weapons are sharp and steel. So who's to say a little dreamcatcher with some feathers and beads tied to a couple strips of leather can't offer you some security? Dean doesn't look at his motivations too closely - he doesn't really look at them at all - but he counts out his money for the vendor, and she wraps the dreamcatcher in tissue paper and puts it in a bag for him, and he tucks it under his arm and thanks her and walks off.
He makes another pass down the aisles, and since he's already scoped out the place and gotten a feel for it, this time he's comfortable talking to vendors about their weapons. He hefts rifles and tests pump action shotguns and fingers both wooden and fiberglass stocks; he examines magazines and chambers and pulls triggers of unloaded guns. He asks questions and takes mental notes, and explains when pressed that he doesn't have the money today, he's really just looking, thanks. When asked, he says his daddy taught him how to hunt, they're new to the area, what's the hunting like? He admits he's never bagged a deer but he has shot wolves, and then he warms to the role he's taken on and says he's a pretty good tracker but his favorite game is blonde and blue-eyed with legs to here, and he winks and the dealer he's talking to chuckles.
He gets a soda from concessions on his way out, and takes his dreamcatcher and his internal notes home. He'll report to Dad who can give Caleb a call if there's anything they want or need. Tomorrow he'll bring Sammy back and show him the wide variety of guns for sale in the world, and coincidentally remind his little brother how to hold a shotgun properly, because the kid's stance is for shit.