So Charismatic with an Automatic, for cillab42
Title: So Charismatic with an Automatic
Author: cleflink
Recipient: cillab42
Rating: G
Word count: 2550
Warnings: None
A/N: Weechester fic. Takes place in April 1992 (Dean is 13, Sam is 8).
Summary: Dean takes it upon himself to further Sam's hunter education.
Dean had been looking forward to today for months.
It was April in Bentonville, Arkansas, and the sun was shining through the so-threadbare-they-weren't-really-curtains-anymore curtains of their current apartment. The weather had been on the slightly chilly side of good for three days and Dean hoped dearly that the pattern would hold today. He'd be so pissed if it rained.
Dad was on a hunt; he'd left last Wednesday with a promise that he'd be back in a week or so and an admonition that Dean had better watch out for Sammy while he was gone. Normally, Dean would have been mad that Dad hadn't let him come - he was 13 now, for Chrissakes! He could help! - but, for once, he didn't mind being left behind. His plan wouldn't work with Dad around. Which was why today was perfect.
Or it would be, as soon as Sam got with the program.
Dean threw a quick, critical look at breakfast to make sure that nothing was going to catch fire if he took his eyes off it. Satisfied that everything was under control, he took the three quick steps from the stove to their bedroom.
"Sammy!" he hollered, pounding a heavy knock on the door. "It's nine o'clock! Up and at 'em!"
Sam made a noise that was a combination of Dean's name, 'go away' and 'I hate you'.
Dean was unfazed. They both tended to take advantage of weekends when Dad was away to laze around in bed a little, but they were far too used to getting up at the asscrack of dawn to be any good at actually sleeping in, which meant that Sam was awake. Which was all the invitation Dean needed. "I made breakfast! Get your butt out here before I eat without you!"
Message delivered, Dean headed back to the kitchen to rescue his eggs - they'd started out sunny side up, but were a lot closer to scrambled now - and grab the toast out of the toaster. They didn't have any margarine for the toast, but luckily Sam preferred peanut butter on his anyway.
Dean was shoveling the food onto two plates when the bedroom door creaked open and Sam shuffled out with his pajamas hanging off him and his hair sticking up in directions that Dean didn't even think existed.
"You made eggs?" Sam asked, because Sam was good at stupid questions. "Why?"
"Because we had eggs in the fridge," Dean said, in the best 'duh' voice he could manage. "Eat up; we've got a big day today."
Sam blinked at him owlishly. "We do?"
Dean nodded. "We sure do. So siddown and eat your breakfast."
Sam did as he was told and Dean poured each of them a glass of juice before joining Sam on the couch, plate balanced awkwardly on his knees. He's never realized how irritating it was not to have a dining room table.
He and Sam ate in relative silence and then Dean - who'd been dressed are ready to go for ages - sent Sam off to get dressed while he polished off a second helping of toast. It seemed like Dean was always hungry these days. Dad said that meant Dean was going to be really tall, just like Dad. Dean hoped that being taller would mean that Dad would start bringing him on hunts.
"Ready?" Dean asked, when Sam reemerged from the bedroom.
Sam nodded. "Where are we going?"
"Out," Dean said, shoving his feet into his shoes. "Come on."
Openly curious and obedient because of it, Sam followed after him.
---
The shit hole apartment they were living in was on the outskirts of the city in an equally shitty neighbourhood. Nobody ever gave a damn in places like this, so Dean didn't worry about getting spotted as they cut through parking lots, alleyways and backyards, angling for the place where city petered off into brush, cement and tall buildings traded in for knee high grass and bristly-looking trees. They crossed the last road and plunged into the brush, vanishing from sight like they were ghosts themselves. Dean led the way confidently across the uneven ground, not slowing even when the noise of the freeway traffic had dwindled to nothing but a dull roar in the background.
Sam lasted a whole fifteen minutes before he cracked. Dean was impressed he'd made it that long.
"Seriously," Sam said. "Where are we going?"
Dean threw a grin that was meant to be equal parts encouraging and unsettling over his shoulder. "Patience, young grasshopper."
"Whatever, Mr. Miyagi," Sam said, and Dean could actually hear him rolling his eyes. "Pretty sure you've got to learn to be patient before you can start telling other people they should be."
"Shut up," Dean said, pushing back another grasping tree branch. "We're nearly there."
Sam huffed loudly but thankfully shut up.
A handful of minutes later, Dean shoved his way into the clearing he'd discovered a couple of weeks ago. It was wide, secluded and mostly level. The grass was too high and there were too many rocks to afford a really good line of sight from one end to the other, but it was pretty good on short notice, Dean thought.
"Well?" Dean asked, spreading his arms out wide and spinning to grin at Sam. "Whaddaya think?"
Sam looked around. "It's a field?"
It was Dean's turn to roll his eyes. "Thanks for that, genius. What do you think of that?"
He pointed and watched Sam's eyes follow to the long plank of wood that Dean had half broken his back hauling out here and the collection of pop cans and bottles he'd placed at careful intervals along it. Another, taller, plank of wood was propped up against one of the scraggly trees across from where Dean and Sam were standing; Dean had even stolen some spray paint to draw a bulls-eye on it.
"It's… a target range." Sam raised an eyebrow at Dean, though the move lost some of its effectiveness since Sam's stupid bangs were in the way. "You did all this? Why?"
Dean shrugged with all the nonchalance he could muster. "Can't have target practice without something to aim at."
Sam's eyes snapped towards him. "What?"
Sure that he had Sam's full attention, Dean reached back and pulled out the handgun that he'd tucked into his waistband before they left. The movement was awkward and ungainly thanks to the weird angle, but Dean knew he'd get better with practice.
"Dean…" Sam's eyes were wide enough to swallow half of his face. "That's… is that-"
"It's totally real. You wanted to know about hunting? Well, this is a big part of it." Dean grinned at Sam. "Cool, huh?"
"Can you-" Sam wet his lips. "You can shoot that, can't you?"
Dean nodded. "Dad taught me. And now I'm going to teach you."
Sam looked at the gun, then up at Dean. "Dad doesn't know about this, does he?"
Dean shrugged. "Not exactly."
"Since when do you do things without Dad's permission?" Sam asked, squinting suspiciously.
Since I decided that you needed to be able to protect yourself, Dean didn't say. He gave Sam a careless grin instead. "Since someone read Dad's journal without asking first, dummy. You know what's out there, so now it's my job to train you up. Besides, it'll be fun! We're just getting a head start on what Dad's going to teach you one day, anyway."
Sam still looked unconvinced. "And you're not worried about getting in trouble when Dad realizes that I already know how to use a gun?"
"Heck no. I hit all the bulls-eyes the first time Dad took me shooting. And I was younger than you are now. You're already playing catch up, little brother." Dean ruffled Sam's hair, just to make him yelp. "Come on, Sammy! Let's get this show on the road."
"Knock it off!" Sam growled, not sounding intimidating at all, and Dean scrubbed at his head once more before turning his attention to the matter at hand.
Slowly and methodically, Dean worked through everything Dad had taught him about handguns: he explained what all the parts were, spent a full five minutes drilling the importance of gun safety into Sam's head, showed him how to load the magazine, and curled Sam's hands around the grip to show him how to hold it.
Sam listened attentively to everything, his forehead furrowed and his mouth curved slightly down in his 'I am absorbing knowledge like a freaking sponge right now, don't mess up my Zen' face.
"Right," Dean said, when he'd run through all the basics. He flicked on the safety, slid out the magazine and handed everything over to Sam. "You try."
Sam was slower than Dean, which was only fair considering that Dean had way more practice - and was way cooler - but he eventually got to the point where the gun was loaded and he wasn't holding it like he thought it was a squirt gun. "Now what?"
"Now you're gonna try hitting stuff. You got the safety on?" Dean asked, and Sam nodded. "So, there's no way a dweeb like you's gonna be able to hit a pop can on the first day-"
Sam scowled hard enough to flay paint off walls.
Dean ignored him. "-so we're starting with the bulls-eye. Get your arms up, like you were gonna shoot something. Lemme see your form."
Tentatively, Sam raised his arms and held the gun straight out in front of him, as though he wanted to get as far away from it as possible.
Dean made a face. "Seriously, Sammy? Do you pay any attention when we watch movies? Bruce Willis would be embarrassed."
"Maybe if you show me instead of being a big jerk I'd do better," Sam snapped.
"Where's the fun in that? Try again."
Sam sighed heavily and adjusted his stance. The result looked considerably less like a particularly awkward statue, but still not that much like a proper shooting posture.
"Better." Dean stepped up into Sam's space. "Shift here," he said, pushing on Sam's hip until he moved. "Now lift your left arm a little higher - there. Make sure to keep your elbows soft. You're gonna kill the joint if you lock your arms like that. And you'll look like an even bigger loser than usual."
Sam muttered something unkind under his breath.
Dean kept circling, making adjustments until he thought that Sam's stance looked about right. "That'll do. Next: aiming. You have to sight down the barrel of the gun to focus on your target. See this thing here? That's the front sight; you want it aiming just below where you want to hit."
"Got it," Sam said firmly. The barrel of the gun wobbled slightly as he took aim.
"Don't jerk the trigger when you fire or you'll screw up your aim." Dean took a critical look at Sam. "Not that your aim's that good in the first pl-"
Sam whirled on him, the colour high on his cheeks. "If all you're going to do is make fun of me, I'm leaving!" His hands dropped and the gun barrel fell towards Sam's knee.
"Watch where you're pointing that!" Dean snapped, pushing the gun safely to one side.
"The safety's on!" Sam protested.
"You willing to risk blowing off your foot?" Dean asked, trying to sound as much like Dad as possible. He remembered this lecture. "Cause you shouldn't be. Don't ever point your gun at something you're not prepared to shoot."
"Okay, geez, I'm sorry."
"Good. You, uh, want to try again?" he offered after a moment. "I promise not to make fun."
Sam nodded. "Yeah, okay." He lined himself up again and Dean was pleased to note that his form was much better this time.
Dean took a moment to correct a few errors, then stepped back a scarce two steps to give Sam some space. "Nice and easy on the trigger, just like I said. And watch out for the kick," he added. "Don't fight the recoil."
"Right," Sam said tightly. He sized up the target and Dean watched silently as Sam took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger.
The gun went off with a crack and Dean's quick reaction time was the only thing that kept Sam from ending up on his ass in the dirt when the recoil knocked him right off his feet.
Dean laughed.
"Shut up," Sam muttered, scarlet-faced and hanging from Dean's arms. "Did I hit it?"
"Not even close." Dean hauled Sam upright and shoved him back towards the target. "Your grip is good but you have to watch your balance. And do something about that flinch."
"I didn't flinch."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Uh, yeah you did. Don't get your panties bunched. Everybody flinches the first time."
Sam made a face at him. "Oh, like you're an expert."
"Hey, I learned from the best. I'm like a junior expert. Here, let me help."
And Sam grumbled but stood patiently while Dean gripped his arms from behind, positioning them both correctly. "Breathe out when you squeeze the trigger," Dean said into Sam's ear as he checked their aim. "And don't close your eyes."
This time, when the gun went off, Dean was there to stabilize Sam, and the bullet hit the second ring of the target. Sam made a startled, pleased sort of sound and Dean grinned.
"There you go," he said. "Just like that." He gave Sam's arms a quick squeeze, then stepped back. "Go for it."
"You make it sound so easy," Sam complained. But Dean's Sammy had never been one to back down from a challenge and Dean was totally unsurprised when Sam lifted the gun again without further prompting.
Sam took careful aim and fired, stifling the flinch and absorbing enough of the recoil to keep the shot mostly straight. The bullet buried itself in the top left corner of the plank, just barely in the outer rim of the bulls-eye.
And Dean wanted to cheer and clap his hands and be a general nuisance, but Sam had already corrected and fired again, and Dean didn't want to distract him when he was carrying a loaded gun. At least, not while he was still learning. Firing with distractions would come later.
Sam managed to land three of his four remaining shots within the target, though he still hadn't managed to hit the centre of the bulls-eye.
"Looking good, Sammy," Dean said, when Sam had emptied the magazine and turned towards him, chest heaving with exertion.
"Yeah?" Sam panted.
Dean smiled at him. "Yeah."
A broad, dimple-carving smile split Sam's face. "Can I try again?"
"Sure." Dean dug into his pocket and pulled out a fresh magazine. "I've only got three more rounds after this though, so don't rush it."
"Yeah, yeah," Sam said, not really listening as he fumbled to reload the gun.
Dean watched him with pride, unable to stop smiling.
His baby brother was gonna be awesome.
Just not as awesome as Dean. Of course.
Author: cleflink
Recipient: cillab42
Rating: G
Word count: 2550
Warnings: None
A/N: Weechester fic. Takes place in April 1992 (Dean is 13, Sam is 8).
Summary: Dean takes it upon himself to further Sam's hunter education.
Dean had been looking forward to today for months.
It was April in Bentonville, Arkansas, and the sun was shining through the so-threadbare-they-weren't-really-curtains-anymore curtains of their current apartment. The weather had been on the slightly chilly side of good for three days and Dean hoped dearly that the pattern would hold today. He'd be so pissed if it rained.
Dad was on a hunt; he'd left last Wednesday with a promise that he'd be back in a week or so and an admonition that Dean had better watch out for Sammy while he was gone. Normally, Dean would have been mad that Dad hadn't let him come - he was 13 now, for Chrissakes! He could help! - but, for once, he didn't mind being left behind. His plan wouldn't work with Dad around. Which was why today was perfect.
Or it would be, as soon as Sam got with the program.
Dean threw a quick, critical look at breakfast to make sure that nothing was going to catch fire if he took his eyes off it. Satisfied that everything was under control, he took the three quick steps from the stove to their bedroom.
"Sammy!" he hollered, pounding a heavy knock on the door. "It's nine o'clock! Up and at 'em!"
Sam made a noise that was a combination of Dean's name, 'go away' and 'I hate you'.
Dean was unfazed. They both tended to take advantage of weekends when Dad was away to laze around in bed a little, but they were far too used to getting up at the asscrack of dawn to be any good at actually sleeping in, which meant that Sam was awake. Which was all the invitation Dean needed. "I made breakfast! Get your butt out here before I eat without you!"
Message delivered, Dean headed back to the kitchen to rescue his eggs - they'd started out sunny side up, but were a lot closer to scrambled now - and grab the toast out of the toaster. They didn't have any margarine for the toast, but luckily Sam preferred peanut butter on his anyway.
Dean was shoveling the food onto two plates when the bedroom door creaked open and Sam shuffled out with his pajamas hanging off him and his hair sticking up in directions that Dean didn't even think existed.
"You made eggs?" Sam asked, because Sam was good at stupid questions. "Why?"
"Because we had eggs in the fridge," Dean said, in the best 'duh' voice he could manage. "Eat up; we've got a big day today."
Sam blinked at him owlishly. "We do?"
Dean nodded. "We sure do. So siddown and eat your breakfast."
Sam did as he was told and Dean poured each of them a glass of juice before joining Sam on the couch, plate balanced awkwardly on his knees. He's never realized how irritating it was not to have a dining room table.
He and Sam ate in relative silence and then Dean - who'd been dressed are ready to go for ages - sent Sam off to get dressed while he polished off a second helping of toast. It seemed like Dean was always hungry these days. Dad said that meant Dean was going to be really tall, just like Dad. Dean hoped that being taller would mean that Dad would start bringing him on hunts.
"Ready?" Dean asked, when Sam reemerged from the bedroom.
Sam nodded. "Where are we going?"
"Out," Dean said, shoving his feet into his shoes. "Come on."
Openly curious and obedient because of it, Sam followed after him.
---
The shit hole apartment they were living in was on the outskirts of the city in an equally shitty neighbourhood. Nobody ever gave a damn in places like this, so Dean didn't worry about getting spotted as they cut through parking lots, alleyways and backyards, angling for the place where city petered off into brush, cement and tall buildings traded in for knee high grass and bristly-looking trees. They crossed the last road and plunged into the brush, vanishing from sight like they were ghosts themselves. Dean led the way confidently across the uneven ground, not slowing even when the noise of the freeway traffic had dwindled to nothing but a dull roar in the background.
Sam lasted a whole fifteen minutes before he cracked. Dean was impressed he'd made it that long.
"Seriously," Sam said. "Where are we going?"
Dean threw a grin that was meant to be equal parts encouraging and unsettling over his shoulder. "Patience, young grasshopper."
"Whatever, Mr. Miyagi," Sam said, and Dean could actually hear him rolling his eyes. "Pretty sure you've got to learn to be patient before you can start telling other people they should be."
"Shut up," Dean said, pushing back another grasping tree branch. "We're nearly there."
Sam huffed loudly but thankfully shut up.
A handful of minutes later, Dean shoved his way into the clearing he'd discovered a couple of weeks ago. It was wide, secluded and mostly level. The grass was too high and there were too many rocks to afford a really good line of sight from one end to the other, but it was pretty good on short notice, Dean thought.
"Well?" Dean asked, spreading his arms out wide and spinning to grin at Sam. "Whaddaya think?"
Sam looked around. "It's a field?"
It was Dean's turn to roll his eyes. "Thanks for that, genius. What do you think of that?"
He pointed and watched Sam's eyes follow to the long plank of wood that Dean had half broken his back hauling out here and the collection of pop cans and bottles he'd placed at careful intervals along it. Another, taller, plank of wood was propped up against one of the scraggly trees across from where Dean and Sam were standing; Dean had even stolen some spray paint to draw a bulls-eye on it.
"It's… a target range." Sam raised an eyebrow at Dean, though the move lost some of its effectiveness since Sam's stupid bangs were in the way. "You did all this? Why?"
Dean shrugged with all the nonchalance he could muster. "Can't have target practice without something to aim at."
Sam's eyes snapped towards him. "What?"
Sure that he had Sam's full attention, Dean reached back and pulled out the handgun that he'd tucked into his waistband before they left. The movement was awkward and ungainly thanks to the weird angle, but Dean knew he'd get better with practice.
"Dean…" Sam's eyes were wide enough to swallow half of his face. "That's… is that-"
"It's totally real. You wanted to know about hunting? Well, this is a big part of it." Dean grinned at Sam. "Cool, huh?"
"Can you-" Sam wet his lips. "You can shoot that, can't you?"
Dean nodded. "Dad taught me. And now I'm going to teach you."
Sam looked at the gun, then up at Dean. "Dad doesn't know about this, does he?"
Dean shrugged. "Not exactly."
"Since when do you do things without Dad's permission?" Sam asked, squinting suspiciously.
Since I decided that you needed to be able to protect yourself, Dean didn't say. He gave Sam a careless grin instead. "Since someone read Dad's journal without asking first, dummy. You know what's out there, so now it's my job to train you up. Besides, it'll be fun! We're just getting a head start on what Dad's going to teach you one day, anyway."
Sam still looked unconvinced. "And you're not worried about getting in trouble when Dad realizes that I already know how to use a gun?"
"Heck no. I hit all the bulls-eyes the first time Dad took me shooting. And I was younger than you are now. You're already playing catch up, little brother." Dean ruffled Sam's hair, just to make him yelp. "Come on, Sammy! Let's get this show on the road."
"Knock it off!" Sam growled, not sounding intimidating at all, and Dean scrubbed at his head once more before turning his attention to the matter at hand.
Slowly and methodically, Dean worked through everything Dad had taught him about handguns: he explained what all the parts were, spent a full five minutes drilling the importance of gun safety into Sam's head, showed him how to load the magazine, and curled Sam's hands around the grip to show him how to hold it.
Sam listened attentively to everything, his forehead furrowed and his mouth curved slightly down in his 'I am absorbing knowledge like a freaking sponge right now, don't mess up my Zen' face.
"Right," Dean said, when he'd run through all the basics. He flicked on the safety, slid out the magazine and handed everything over to Sam. "You try."
Sam was slower than Dean, which was only fair considering that Dean had way more practice - and was way cooler - but he eventually got to the point where the gun was loaded and he wasn't holding it like he thought it was a squirt gun. "Now what?"
"Now you're gonna try hitting stuff. You got the safety on?" Dean asked, and Sam nodded. "So, there's no way a dweeb like you's gonna be able to hit a pop can on the first day-"
Sam scowled hard enough to flay paint off walls.
Dean ignored him. "-so we're starting with the bulls-eye. Get your arms up, like you were gonna shoot something. Lemme see your form."
Tentatively, Sam raised his arms and held the gun straight out in front of him, as though he wanted to get as far away from it as possible.
Dean made a face. "Seriously, Sammy? Do you pay any attention when we watch movies? Bruce Willis would be embarrassed."
"Maybe if you show me instead of being a big jerk I'd do better," Sam snapped.
"Where's the fun in that? Try again."
Sam sighed heavily and adjusted his stance. The result looked considerably less like a particularly awkward statue, but still not that much like a proper shooting posture.
"Better." Dean stepped up into Sam's space. "Shift here," he said, pushing on Sam's hip until he moved. "Now lift your left arm a little higher - there. Make sure to keep your elbows soft. You're gonna kill the joint if you lock your arms like that. And you'll look like an even bigger loser than usual."
Sam muttered something unkind under his breath.
Dean kept circling, making adjustments until he thought that Sam's stance looked about right. "That'll do. Next: aiming. You have to sight down the barrel of the gun to focus on your target. See this thing here? That's the front sight; you want it aiming just below where you want to hit."
"Got it," Sam said firmly. The barrel of the gun wobbled slightly as he took aim.
"Don't jerk the trigger when you fire or you'll screw up your aim." Dean took a critical look at Sam. "Not that your aim's that good in the first pl-"
Sam whirled on him, the colour high on his cheeks. "If all you're going to do is make fun of me, I'm leaving!" His hands dropped and the gun barrel fell towards Sam's knee.
"Watch where you're pointing that!" Dean snapped, pushing the gun safely to one side.
"The safety's on!" Sam protested.
"You willing to risk blowing off your foot?" Dean asked, trying to sound as much like Dad as possible. He remembered this lecture. "Cause you shouldn't be. Don't ever point your gun at something you're not prepared to shoot."
"Okay, geez, I'm sorry."
"Good. You, uh, want to try again?" he offered after a moment. "I promise not to make fun."
Sam nodded. "Yeah, okay." He lined himself up again and Dean was pleased to note that his form was much better this time.
Dean took a moment to correct a few errors, then stepped back a scarce two steps to give Sam some space. "Nice and easy on the trigger, just like I said. And watch out for the kick," he added. "Don't fight the recoil."
"Right," Sam said tightly. He sized up the target and Dean watched silently as Sam took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger.
The gun went off with a crack and Dean's quick reaction time was the only thing that kept Sam from ending up on his ass in the dirt when the recoil knocked him right off his feet.
Dean laughed.
"Shut up," Sam muttered, scarlet-faced and hanging from Dean's arms. "Did I hit it?"
"Not even close." Dean hauled Sam upright and shoved him back towards the target. "Your grip is good but you have to watch your balance. And do something about that flinch."
"I didn't flinch."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Uh, yeah you did. Don't get your panties bunched. Everybody flinches the first time."
Sam made a face at him. "Oh, like you're an expert."
"Hey, I learned from the best. I'm like a junior expert. Here, let me help."
And Sam grumbled but stood patiently while Dean gripped his arms from behind, positioning them both correctly. "Breathe out when you squeeze the trigger," Dean said into Sam's ear as he checked their aim. "And don't close your eyes."
This time, when the gun went off, Dean was there to stabilize Sam, and the bullet hit the second ring of the target. Sam made a startled, pleased sort of sound and Dean grinned.
"There you go," he said. "Just like that." He gave Sam's arms a quick squeeze, then stepped back. "Go for it."
"You make it sound so easy," Sam complained. But Dean's Sammy had never been one to back down from a challenge and Dean was totally unsurprised when Sam lifted the gun again without further prompting.
Sam took careful aim and fired, stifling the flinch and absorbing enough of the recoil to keep the shot mostly straight. The bullet buried itself in the top left corner of the plank, just barely in the outer rim of the bulls-eye.
And Dean wanted to cheer and clap his hands and be a general nuisance, but Sam had already corrected and fired again, and Dean didn't want to distract him when he was carrying a loaded gun. At least, not while he was still learning. Firing with distractions would come later.
Sam managed to land three of his four remaining shots within the target, though he still hadn't managed to hit the centre of the bulls-eye.
"Looking good, Sammy," Dean said, when Sam had emptied the magazine and turned towards him, chest heaving with exertion.
"Yeah?" Sam panted.
Dean smiled at him. "Yeah."
A broad, dimple-carving smile split Sam's face. "Can I try again?"
"Sure." Dean dug into his pocket and pulled out a fresh magazine. "I've only got three more rounds after this though, so don't rush it."
"Yeah, yeah," Sam said, not really listening as he fumbled to reload the gun.
Dean watched him with pride, unable to stop smiling.
His baby brother was gonna be awesome.
Just not as awesome as Dean. Of course.