The Gun At the End of the Universe

Categories:  Supernaturalfic

OMG! It’s rated G for Ginormously schmoop! Written for a 60-minute challenge, thus a ficlet with triggers being: weapons and end of the world.


Sam really has to give Dean credit. He’s trying very very hard not to hover, or even watch as Sam disassembles the guns, one by one. Even though Sam has always been great with handling their weapons, in every way, he understands Dean’s concern. For years, cleaning the guns and sharpening their knives (except for Sam’s on personal Browning, which even Dean knows better than to touch) has been Dean’s way of decrompressing. His zen place. Whether before a hunt, when the anticipation of evil can crumble a lesser man, or after, when adrenaline is oozing out of his pores like sweat.

Now, he’s lounging on the other bed, hands crossed primly in his lap (because really, with them looking like white-bandaged clubs, there’s not a lot of options). Once Sam tuned the TV to the Southpark marathon, he’d settled Dean with pillows and even held the bottle of water while his brother drained it dry. So, yeah. Now, Dean is settled and Sam is cleaning their guns and Sam knows it’s driving him positively batshit crazy that someone else, even Sam, has to do that.

What Sam doesn’t remind Dean is that it’s probably a pointless exercise anyway, since the world will most likely just be one big ball of fire in approximately 50 hours. Best not to chance being called Dr. Obvious, though.

“Don’t forget to watch that bent spring on the Beretta when you’re putting it back together.”

So much for no commentary.

Sam peers up from under his hair, but doesn’t raise his head. “Already taken care of, Dean.” He bends further over the blade he’s currently honing so Dean can’t see him smirk.

“Well, maybe you should put it over here so I can take a look at it.”

Sam sighs and does look up this time. “That’s all you can do to it.” And immediately wishes he could swallow his tongue, along with the words that just tumbled out.

Dean’s eyes narrow to tiny slits, then one side of his mouth tilts up. “Way to cheer up the cripple, Bitch.”

Sam answers him with a deep-dimple grin. “You know I’ve considered you handicapped for a lot longer than the two days since the fire, Jerk.”

He’s totally not expecting the boot Dean kicks off his foot and at Sam’s head.

“Dude! Do you want your feet maimed too? I will so kick your ass, injured or not.” The banter continues while Sam puts the knife aside and picks up the Double Eagle, having saved it for last.


“Dean.” Sam ignores the warning in Dean’s voice, choosing to take advantage of his brother’s disability to fondle the semi-automatic that is Dean’s pride and joy. He tamps down a twinge of guilt and makes the mistake of looking up. Sam catches the sadness on Dean’s face a split second before his brother can rearrange his features to their usual cocky mask. Damn.

Sam shoves himself off the bed, the gun in one hand and takes the half-step to Dean’s bed, sitting on the edge. “Hey. I’m pretty sure I could take apart and put this baby back together, but, just in case…”

Dean scoots over, giving Sam more room to settle back on the mattress until his thigh is pressed against his brother’s while he starts spreading the pieces of the gun out between them.

Dean’s never had an inkling of the power he has over Sam. And yeah, Sam’s no dummy. He’s always known that Dean has a hard time telling him no, but what he’s never told him is it’s always gone both ways.

As per usual, the Winchesters’ actions have always spoken louder than words.

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