“There’s a lot more to it than just 'point and shoot’," Mary says, holding up a finger. "For one, unless you’re literally ready to fire, keep your finger off the trigger.”

She glares pointedly at Rowena until the latter’s eyes flit down to the Glock and widen in realization; Rowena quickly relaxes the finger in question. “Oh. Right.”

“And while we’re on the topic,” adds Mary, holding up a second finger, “never, ever point a gun at something you’re not fully prepared to shoot.” She tilts her head downrange. “By which I mean, as long as you’re in this room, keep it pointed at those targets or at the ground and nothing else, or I will confiscate it. Got it?”

Rowena scowls, clearly not used to being chastised, but she nods.

“Good. Three,” Mary holds up another finger, “make sure you know what’s behind your target. A bullet doesn’t know the difference between a good guy and a bad guy, so if you shoot at a bad guy who’s standing right in front of a good guy, there’s a good chance the bullet goes right through the bad guy and proceeds to ruin the good guy’s day. And lastly, but most importantly,” a final finger, “always treat every gun as though it’s loaded, even if someone tells you it’s not. Think of it as…” Mary racks her brain, trying to think of an appropriate metaphor. “Think of it as a magical artifact that may or may not be charged and that could really hurt someone—or you—if it activates before you want it to.”

Mary's explanation seems to land, because while Rowena still doesn't look like she appreciates the sternness with which she’s being spoken to, her scowl lessens somewhat as she nods again. “All right. I understand.”

“Good.” Mary lowers her hand. “Now that we’ve covered the basics, let’s talk about your stance. Show me what you’ve got, but don’t pull the trigger; I just want to see how you aim.”

Rowena complies, and right away, Mary finds herself shaking her head. “You’re leaning too far back, like you’re afraid the gun’s going to blow up in your face.”

“It could, for all I know,” Rowena mutters.

“Then you shouldn’t be using it,” Mary snaps, and Jesus, if she wasn’t frustrated with this woman before…

She exhales, forcing herself to remain calm. For her boys, she reminds herself; she’s doing this for her boys…

“What I mean,” Mary says, trying again, “it’s that it’s really, really important to make sure your gun is properly maintained, because if you don’t, that’s when accidents tend to happen.” She gestures at the Glock. “Did the person who sold you that tell you anything about its condition?”

Given the way their conversation’s been going, Mary is fully expecting a ‘no’, but that doesn’t make Rowena’s headshake any less infuriating. For Sam and Dean, for Sam and Dean…

“Okay,” Mary continues. “At this point, I don’t want you firing it again until either I or Sam or Dean have looked at it.” She gestures toward the counter of the shooting stall. “Put it down. Gently,” she adds, narrowing her eyes at Rowena’s petulant expression. “Or it just might blow up in your face.”

It’s a lie—Mary knows the chances of the gun misfiring due to sudden impact are extremely small—but it’s worth it for the way Rowena’s scowl loosens into something more appropriately cautious as she does as she’s told and carefully deposits the gun on the counter.

Mary picks it up. She removes the magazine and sets it aside, then racks the slide back to release the chambered round, smirking with a distinct sense of Schadenfreude when Rowena flinches as the bullet pops out and clatters to the ground. After a final check of the chamber to make sure it’s clear, Mary puts the gun back down and crosses her arms.

“You got lucky,” she says, the petty part of her a little disappointed. “At first glance, things look okay, but we’re still doing a more detailed check later.” Then, because it occurs to her that she hasn’t asked, she adds, “Why do you want a gun in the first place? Don’t you have witchy powers and all that?”

The look Rowena gives her is cold and guarded. “Of course I do. It’s just…” She glances down at the emptied Glock, and something in her expression cracks. “Well, spells can take time, and they’re not always effective against…particularly powerful creatures, and…oh, never mind,” she finishes harshly. “It’s not like it really matters now the rift’s sealed, it’s just for…peace of mind.”

It takes a beat for Mary to figure out what Rowena’s getting at, but when she does, her lips part in surprise. “This is about Lucifer?” she says, and the way Rowena shifts uncomfortably at the name is answer enough. “Rowena, he’s gone. He can’t hurt us anymore, and besides,” she tilts her head toward the Glock, “something like that wouldn’t stop him.”

“Aye, but it might slow him down,” insists Rowena, “or at least catch him off guard long enough for me to…to do something.” She takes a breath, eyes fierce with determination. “I won’t be helpless, not ever again.”

Mary swallows. There’s something dangerously close to empathy stirring in her chest, and she feels the bulk of her initial anger toward Rowena start to fade. Damn it…

“Fine.” She reaches into her waistband and pulls out her 1911, double checking the safety before holding it out butt first. “Then try this. It's heavier than what you were using and has more of a kick, but it’s got a similar grip, and at least I know where it’s been.”

Rowena’s gaze flickers from Mary to the 1911 and back; she looks confused. “You’re giving me your gun?”

“No,” replies Mary, “I’m loaning it to you, on a very temporary basis, until either my boys or I can check out the one you bought or we can go through the armory and pick out something that might work better for you.” She takes a step forward, offering the 1911. "For peace of mind."

Rowena hesitates, then reaches out, taking the gun and turning it over in her hands. “You said I was standing wrong,” she says after a moment. Her eyes flick back to Mary’s, and for the first time since Mary walked in, there’s a grudging sort of respect in Rowena’s gaze. “How am I supposed to?”

Mary waves a hand, indicating for Rowena to resume aiming. “Do what you were doing before. I’ll adjust you.”

Rowena adopts her previous stance, and Mary moves in closer. “Feet shoulder width apart,” she instructs. “Now bend your knees—just a little, you’re not doing a squat—and bring your right foot back a smidge.” She nudges Rowena’s foot with her own until it’s in the right position. “Like that.”

“It’s a wee bit early for footsie, isn’t it?” asks Rowena delicately, glancing at Mary with a hint of a smirk.

“Shut up,” Mary mutters, and if her face feels red, it’s only because she’s annoyed, damn it, “and keep most of your weight on your left foot.”

Placing a hand on Rowena’s left shoulder, Mary uses her other hand to cup Rowena’s right elbow and guide it upward. Through the thin fabric of Rowena’s dress, Mary can feel the warmth of the other woman’s skin.

She lets go of Rowena, moving to her left. “Okay, you see this little lever-looking thing on the side? That’s the safety; the gun won’t fire as long as that’s engaged. I want you to take your left thumb and flick it down. Good. Now line up your sights—both eyes open, there you go. Remember, there’s more kick to this one, so be ready for that. Okay,” she says again, satisfied, and steps back. “When you’re ready, go ahead and gently squeeze the trigger.”

There’s a bang as Rowena fires; she wobbles slightly at the recoil, but her grip remains steady. As she lowers the gun, Mary steps forward to peer downrange at the paper silhouette target.

“Looks like you got him in the shoulder.” Mary nods in approval. “Nice.”

For her part, Rowena looks stunned. “I did it,” she murmurs, then, louder, “I did it!” She beams, giving Mary a satisfied once-over. “I’ll be a crack shot before you know it.”