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"I'm bored, gimme your gun," Dean said to you.
Your facial expression was the only form of exclamation you needed there. "Who the FUCK starts a conversation like that, I just sat down," you said as you motioned to your untouched bowl of cereal.
"I'm gonna clean the weapons and I need your gun," he continued. You sighed, got your gun from the back of your pants, and put it on the table in front of him.
"You be careful with that, that's my favorite gun. You break it, you die," you warned.
He rolled his eyes and mock-delicately picked up the gun. "Oh my God, I'm not gonna break it."
You made a "whatever" face and picked up your cereal before venturing to your room, hoping to catch up on some episodes of Desperate Housewives in uninterrupted solitude.
A couple minutes went by. You were in your usual invested-watching position on your bed: on your stomach, ankles crossed in the air, chin propped in your palms. You had always loved this show, and your favorite character, Bree, was one to obsess over. She could go from the perfect suburban wife, with her apron on and cookies in hand, straight to a lady loading a shotgun in the middle of a dinner party because a neighbor was being annoying. All while wearing pearls, too.
Then you heard a smash from the main room, followed by quite the most feminine scream you've ever heard in your life (which was saying something). You reached behind your back for your gun.
You fool. You didn't have it.
You grabbed the baseball bat under your bed as an alternative. You played tee-ball as a little tyke. You totally got this.
You exited your room and hugged the wall as you made your way down the hallway. Oh, how you wish you could have believed screams were benign. Unfortunately, you didn't, and with caution did you proceed towards the railing that overlooked the control room.
"God, you're an idiot," you heard Sam say. He seemed to say it with a laugh. "(Y/N)'s going to freakin' murder you."
You finally peered over the railing and down at the table below. Sam was leisurely drinking a cup of his gross hippy herbal tea. Dean was hunched over the table, holding his hands out in front of him. Something was in each of them, but you couldn't tell what from the distance.
You knew this would be funny. You inhaled dramatically deeply, then shouted, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
Dean yelped when he looked up--actually yelped, like a dog with its tail stepped on--and Sam peered up at you. His grin spread.
As you started down the metal stairs, Dean got up from the table and held his hands behind his back. His guilty face was your favorite, you couldn't help but want to laugh. He knew he was about to get his ass BEAT. You could already smell the popcorn Sam was wishing he could cook. The flag was being set to half-mass this very moment. Bobby's spirit dug a grave out back. The whistles blew.
You slowly and calmly went up to the table. Your baseball bat hung by your waist, and Dean eyed it. He leaned on the table, all covered in shiny knives and guns and rags spotted with oil, grease, and disinfectant. Hand sanitizer sat next to Sam, the health freak. The lights around the room reflected off of all the guns, and you admired all but your own.
Because your gun wasn't there.
"Dean," you said as you casually blinked and stared at him, straight through his ruse. "Where's my gun?"
He smiled and started laughing for no reason. You exchanged looks with Sam, who was looking at you over the lip of his mug. His eyebrows were raised, his wide and cheeky grin hidden behind the Tongie Long Island Iced Tea printed coffee cup. You imagined his sassy digits, crowing on "Ooh, girl, git 'em, girl, git 'em!".
Dean then stopped laughing and cleared his throat. "Uh..." he began. "I broke your gun."
I FUCKING KNEW IT, you thought. "Oh my GOD, how?!"
"THE HANDLE CAME OFF I'M SORRY."
"WHAT?!"
He revealed two steel gun pieces, and the top of it was separated from the handle. With the model it was, a quick reload only took a slight of hand and bend-back of the handle to release the clip. The hinge, on the inside might you add, had broken. Cleaning the magazine chamber was a delicate process, one Dean had neglected because of his so-called "boredom". Fixing it was hard on your own, and expensive with assistance. Basically, it was fucked.
You let out a small squeak like you were looking at a dead friend. Your gun. Your poor little gun. How will you pistol-whip disrespectful bitches now?
"Jesus, what'd you even DO?!"
"I was trying to dig into the--"
"Oh, Jesus, he dug--"
"-I heard a snap and then Sam asked me 'What was that snap?' and I said 'I don't know' so I put the gun down and suddenly it was in two pieces, AND THEN I PICKED IT UP AND DROPPED IT ON THE FLOOR-"
You gestured dramatically to the floor where it probably didn't happen, and Sam snorted loudly five feet away.
"I swear to God I'll buy you a new gun if you give the bat to Sam and not eat my ass," he followed with.
"As long as you never ever, ever-to-the-millionth-power touch it after that, then yes." you said.
Dean shrugged with a new grin on his face. "Deal. And jokes on you, I never took chemistry."