Summary: Set after Asylum. Shotguns aren't Sam's thing...

Sam gave a flinch as Dean threw him the .45.

"Move out Sammy."

The double-barrel didn't feel right in his hands, the worn wood suddenly a different shape- a mold to a different persons hand. Not his.

Like suddenly, all those years of him molding to the grain of the wood gone, some new shoes he didn't want to break-in.

Hunting suddenly felt too dangerous and Sam swallowed hard.

It wasn't always the hunted that hurt his brother.

I can too...

"Sammy?" Dean emerged from behind him, he took the shotgun and gave Sam the machete. "S'alright."

Sam nodded.

"Just tell me if this doesn't sit right..."

Sam shook his head. "No, I'm good."

This time, they didn't split up on hunts.

End.

Thanks for taking the time to read. x