When Dean first says, “I wanna take you somewhere,” you think he’s about to drag you to a bar, or a greasy diner, or maybe one of those roadside joints he always claims has “the best pie in five counties.” But then he tosses you his duffel bag and says, “Pack light. Bring boots. You’re gonna get dirty.”

You raise a brow. “Kinda cryptic. Even for you.”

He just grins. That cocky, lopsided smirk you’d follow into hell. “Trust me, sweetheart. You’ll like this.” Turns out, “somewhere” is a shooting range off a forgotten highway: just dirt, dust, old tires, and a battered wood sign half hanging off a rusted post. The kind of place you’d never know existed unless someone showed you. The second the Impala rumbles to a stop and the engine cuts, the silence wraps around you like a dry wind. Dean hops out, already moving to the trunk. You follow, watching the way the sun streaks through his hair.

“You brought me to the middle of nowhere,” you say, folding your arms. “Should I be worried?”

He shoots you a look. “Relax, killer. If I was gonna off you, I’d at least buy you dinner first.”

You smirk. “Romantic.”

Dean lifts a duffel from the trunk, unzipping it to reveal the heavy, familiar glint of steel: multiple handguns, clips, and boxes of ammunition packed with almost obsessive care. “I didn’t bring you here for fun,” he says, tone dropping just slightly. “I brought you here to teach you how to stay alive.” You blink. Dean straightens up, expression unreadable now. “You’ve been lucky,” he says. “Smart, too. But luck runs out. Monsters don’t play fair. And I’m not always gonna be there to watch your six.”

You study him. His jaw is tight. There’s tension under his voice. You walk up beside him, gentle. “Is this because of the werewolf last week?”

Dean looks away. “It’s because I’ve buried too many people I care about already.” The weight of that lands hard. He doesn’t say stuff like that often. He pulls a Glock from the bag, checks the safety, then hands it to you grip-first. “You ever fire one?”

You shake your head. “Only shot I’ve ever taken was whiskey.”

He snorts. “Figures.” He moves behind you, close but not touching, and gestures to the dirt clearing up ahead where he’s already set up a couple of empty beer cans on an old fence post. “Feet shoulder-width. Don’t lock your arms. Keep your grip high, thumb wrapped. Tight, but not so tight you’re shaking.” You raise the gun. It’s heavier than you expected. Familiar in a way that makes your stomach twist. Dean steps in then, gently guiding your elbows, adjusting your stance. His hands are warm. “You’re a natural,” he murmurs. “Just need a little tuning.” You aim. Inhale. Hold your breath like he taught you. Bang. The first shot misses. Dean chuckles. “You flinched.”

“I did not.”

“You blinked like a damn cartoon character.”

You shoot him a glare. “You’re real encouraging, Winchester.”

He grins. “It’s part of my charm.” You take another shot. This one clips the side of the can. Dean whistles. “Look at that. Told you-natural.” You lower the gun, heart thudding faster than the shots should justify. Dean steps in front of you now, closer, eyes scanning your face. “You’re doing good,” he says, softer now. “Real good.”

You look up at him. “Thanks for this.”

He shrugs, feigning casual, but you can see the tightness still in his shoulders. “I just… I need to know you can take care of yourself if I’m not there.”

“And what if I want you there?”

Dean doesn’t answer right away. Then his voice drops to something lower. “Then I’ll make damn sure I come back.” You stare at each other for a long beat, heat and tension thrumming low and steady between you. Then he nods toward the gun in your hand. “Again,” he says.