𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝙷𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛[𝙳.𝚆]

067

"You're pretty good at that." I complement Dean with an impressed look, sitting down on the only open space next to him. He looks up at me through his lashes with raised brows as he continues to clean his sawed off.

"It's not rocket science. I've also been doing it for years." He says, looking back down. I shrug.

"I know it's just you're pretty fast at it. Not as fast as me, but close enough." This time he looks up all the way and raises a challenging brow.

"Is that so?"

"Oh, most definitely." I smirk. He nods curtly, lips pursed. He picks up a sawed off he hasn't cleaned yet and holds it out to me.

"Prove it." My smirk grows and I take it without hesitation, accepting his challenge. I hold out my hand and wiggle my fingers.

"I'm gonna need your rod and the lube." Dean chokes on his spit, leaning away from me to look at me with wide eyes and knitted brows.

"Wh-what?" He chuckles nervously. I smirk even wider until I'm laughing at him.

"For the gun, Dean. Get your mind out of the gutter. Or, at least take me out on a date first." I whisper so only he can hear, chuckling when I catch the light pink that appears on his cheeks. He clears his throat and shakes his head.

"Right, right, obviously." He hands me the cleaning rod and the gun oil and solvent. I smile. I manage to disassemble the sawed off, solvate it, lubricant it, and reassemble it in under five minutes, and it only takes me that long because I gave the solvent time to set in. Usually, I hum the jeopardy song while I wait. Dean whistles, tossing me a rag to wipe my hands clean of oil when I finish. 

"I had to admit, that was kinda hot." He whispers. I laugh quietly.

"Even the part with me humming the jeopardy theme song." I ask, tossing him back the dirty rag. He catches it easily and hums.

"Especially that part." He growls playfully, leaning closer to kiss me but I roll my eyes and push his face away. I turn my head to look at Sam, only to find his eyes still glued to the wall that has all of the Miller house's history.

"Sam, dude, you've been staring at the wall for hours. Take a break. You're gonna overwork your brain." I sigh. He just ignores me and scratches his chin. I wonder if he even heard what I said.

I look at Dean for help and he just shrugs, going back to reassembling our guns. I continue to clean some more of them, but at a slower pace this time, now that I'm not proving I'm better than my partner in crime over here. A lot of the guns are pretty clean—shows Dean knows how to take care of his things. I hum at the thought.

"Do you have anything at least?" I ask Sam, not looking up at him. He sighs loudly.

"A lot of nothing. Nothing bad has happened to the Miller house since it was built." He answers.

"What about the land?" Dean asks.

"No graveyard, battlefields, tribal lands, or any other kind of atrocity on or near the property." Sam lists off, plopping down on his bed. I had Dean the short barrel of the shotgun so he can reassemble it and move onto a revolver.

"Hey, man, I told you. I searched that house up and down. There were no cold spots, no sulfur scent, nada." He checks the barrel when he's done assembling it and hums, impressed. "Nice." He praises me. I smile smugly.

"What can I say, I know how to get my hands dirty." I wink. He chuckles and sets down the shotgun.

"Oh, I'm sure of it."