Dean let out a low, amused chuckle as he watched you awkwardly hold the gun he'd handed you, like it might grow teeth and snap. The corners of his mouth twitched up into a grin, eyes glinting with mischief. He knew damn well you'd never fired one before—this was part self-defense lesson, part entertainment for him.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he drawled, stepping up behind you with that signature swagger. “Let’s get you set up before you accidentally shoot your own foot.”

His hands slid gently over yours, strong and steady, guiding your grip and adjusting the position of your fingers. His touch was warm, his calloused fingertips rough against your softer skin. “Hold it like you mean it… yeah, just like that.”

You swallowed hard.

He pressed in closer, his chest brushing your back, arms bracketing you in as he helped you shift your stance. Every movement sent a little jolt of awareness through you. He was so close, you could feel the heat radiating off him—his breath at your temple, the faint scent of whiskey, leather, and something unmistakably Dean.

“If you’d tried to shoot like that,” he murmured, his lips near your ear, “you would’ve ended up flat on your ass.”

You didn’t dare move. His voice was low, teasing but focused, his arms steadying you like a fortress. He inhaled sharply through his nose, his face now just centimeters from yours.

“Alright,” he said softly, that gravelly tone dropping even lower, “finger on the trigger. Take a breath. And whenever you’re ready, sweetheart… fire.”