sometimes i type words

[withimpunity]

4773 / 50000 words. 10% done!


After my bitchfest earlier, my fingers decided to spite me and pump out 1800 words! Gwee! I'm so pleased! Have a snippet!

Dean gives Sam this slow smile and lowers his safety glasses down over his eyes. Sometimes Sam envies Dean for being able to enjoy this so much. He pops his earplugs in as Dean does the same and stands back, watching as Dean spreads his feet shoulder width apart, right foot planted slightly higher than the left. His posture straightens, shoulders pulled back as he raises his arms. Sam counts the seconds, one, two, three, until Dean squeezes the trigger. His shoulders barely flinch, but Sam can see the way his muscles bunch underneath his t-shirt, pulled tight across his shoulder blades. Sam reaches over and presses the button to retrieve the target sheet.

“See, Sammy?” Dean grins, snatching the target off the line. There's a bullet hole where the person's throat would be. “Easy as pie. Your turn.”

Sam wipes his palms on the front of his jeans as Dean holds the Beretta out for him to take. The nine millimeter feels cold and heavy in his hand and his hold body itches with this feeling of bad, wrong. Sam wishes like hell he didn't feel like this. Like some kind of freak in his own family, the only one that can't stand to hold a gun in his hand. Dean loves shooting because of all the power, right there in the palm of his hand. He controls it. Sam thinks that's exactly why he hates it. Its nauseating having that much power. He doesn't think he's strong enough to control it.

“Okay,” Dean says behind him, kicking Sam's feet apart with his boot. “Get a good, comfortable grip on it, Sammy.”

“Don't call me that,” Sam grumbles, planting his feet firmly in the ground, one a few inches higher than the other, stiffening his shoulders up, trying to mirror Dean's actions exactly.

“Not so stiff,” Dean mutters behind him. Sam feels Dean's hands on his shoulder, fingers curled around the bone, loosening him up a few notches.

“You don't wanna pull something, especially if you were firing something with a big ass kickback like Dad's fifty cal.”

“Okay,” Sam's voice is scratchy and he re-squares his shoulders, not quite as taut as before. “This good?”

“Yeah, perfect.” Dean says to his right. “Now raise it up, get it level with the target.”

Sam raises his arms, aiming at the far off target in the distance, at least fifty yards away. He's done this before, even shot Dad's Beretta before, but every single time his elbows go weak and his arms tremble and shake with the rush, a mixture of fear and adrenaline. He takes a few deep breaths, forcing his heart rate down, and his finger slips down, curling around the trigger.

"Good," Dean says softly next to him. "Fire."

Sam squeezes the trigger, feels Dean's palm press into the small of his back as gunpowder explodes, deafening despite the earplugs. He's glad Dean made him loosen up, because he'd forgotten how much of a kick back the nine mill has. The vibrations coming off the metal sends this itchy tingle through the tips of Sam's fingers, up his arms, all the way down to Dean's fingers still resting on his back.

"Good job, Sammy." Dean says, and Sam thinks he can feel a puff of warm breath on the back of his neck when Dean moves to pull the target sheet in. Sam gets this feeling, couldn't describe it if you paid him to, but it almost feels like giddiness. He knows that's not it, but it almost is. Probably the rush of adrenaline, the tingle in his veins, and the pride in Dean's voice all hitting him at once. He doesn't even realize that he's bouncing on the heels of his sneakers waiting for the target sheet as it inches forward.

Comments

[oh-mcgee.livejournal.com]

Not a freak at all :D