To Be a Child Again
Rating: G
Genre: WeeWinchesters
Summary: Dean's a grown-up before his time.
Author's Notes: Beta'd by
kuronue. I don't own anything or anyone mentioned in this story. It's all Kripke and Company.
To Be a Child Again
John Winchester stalked through the small motel room, a study of barely restrained motion, his burly form dangerously brushing the scarred edges of the furniture as if he didn’t have time to notice the room around him. Stoically, he laid several weapons across the cracked formica tabletop, each piece forming a precise pattern across the flat surface. “So you need to remember, that with this kind of creature, the cut needs to be clean. If you don’t sever the spine, the head will grow right back.”
Dean nodded wisely, filing away the information as his eyes carefully caressed the gleaming surfaces of the weapons laid out before him like an offering. The cold smell of iron and cordite pinched his nose, making the back of his teeth hurt like when he bit into something too sweet.
“Did Sam finish his work?” John asked gruffly, stuffing seemingly random objects into the depths of his satchel. Dean knew nothing escaped his father’s notice - everything in that bag would be tagged and cataloged in his father’s brain, and if even one thing were out of place, there would be hell to pay.
“I made sure of it, Dad.” Dean gave an obedient nod, hands placed flat on his lap, giving the guns and blades their due respect. Weapons were their defense, their security against anyone harming their family; therefore, they deserved to be honored. Nothing was touched without permission. Without order, there was chaos, and John would not allow chaos anywhere near his precious weapons.
“Good.” John turned toward the door, his coat swinging sharply and falling like a shadowy cloak around his figure, hiding his secrets behind the worn leather. “I’ve got to head out to make sure the nest is clean. Clean the weapons and then go to bed. Remember, you’re in charge when I’m gone.”
“Yes, sir.” Dean watched solemnly as the door swung closed behind his father, still sitting ramrod straight in the stiff chair at the kitchen table. Once the door had locked into place behind his father’s shadowy figure, he allowed himself to touch the weapons laid out before him, fingers ghosting over sharp edged blades and chrome muzzles, testing for nicks or sticky spots that needed immediate attention with the sensitive tips of his fingers. He chose his first task and with practiced ease, opened the chamber of the shotgun to make sure it was empty before efficiently dismantling it and pulling out the gun oil. Laying the pieces evenly on the table in front of him, ever the diligent soldier, nine-year-old Dean leaned back and wished he could be a child again.
Genre: WeeWinchesters
Summary: Dean's a grown-up before his time.
Author's Notes: Beta'd by
kuronue. I don't own anything or anyone mentioned in this story. It's all Kripke and Company.
To Be a Child Again
John Winchester stalked through the small motel room, a study of barely restrained motion, his burly form dangerously brushing the scarred edges of the furniture as if he didn’t have time to notice the room around him. Stoically, he laid several weapons across the cracked formica tabletop, each piece forming a precise pattern across the flat surface. “So you need to remember, that with this kind of creature, the cut needs to be clean. If you don’t sever the spine, the head will grow right back.”
Dean nodded wisely, filing away the information as his eyes carefully caressed the gleaming surfaces of the weapons laid out before him like an offering. The cold smell of iron and cordite pinched his nose, making the back of his teeth hurt like when he bit into something too sweet.
“Did Sam finish his work?” John asked gruffly, stuffing seemingly random objects into the depths of his satchel. Dean knew nothing escaped his father’s notice - everything in that bag would be tagged and cataloged in his father’s brain, and if even one thing were out of place, there would be hell to pay.
“I made sure of it, Dad.” Dean gave an obedient nod, hands placed flat on his lap, giving the guns and blades their due respect. Weapons were their defense, their security against anyone harming their family; therefore, they deserved to be honored. Nothing was touched without permission. Without order, there was chaos, and John would not allow chaos anywhere near his precious weapons.
“Good.” John turned toward the door, his coat swinging sharply and falling like a shadowy cloak around his figure, hiding his secrets behind the worn leather. “I’ve got to head out to make sure the nest is clean. Clean the weapons and then go to bed. Remember, you’re in charge when I’m gone.”
“Yes, sir.” Dean watched solemnly as the door swung closed behind his father, still sitting ramrod straight in the stiff chair at the kitchen table. Once the door had locked into place behind his father’s shadowy figure, he allowed himself to touch the weapons laid out before him, fingers ghosting over sharp edged blades and chrome muzzles, testing for nicks or sticky spots that needed immediate attention with the sensitive tips of his fingers. He chose his first task and with practiced ease, opened the chamber of the shotgun to make sure it was empty before efficiently dismantling it and pulling out the gun oil. Laying the pieces evenly on the table in front of him, ever the diligent soldier, nine-year-old Dean leaned back and wished he could be a child again.