Title: Two Miles or Two Weeks.
Characters: John, Teen!Sam, Teen!Dean
Warnings/Rating: Gen. Some potty mouth...PG-13
Summary: The boys are training. Sam isn't feeling too well.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not getting paid. Just like playing with the boys.
It's hot. When Sam breathes the air in, it feels like he's breathing in fire. What did they say in that old flick, Biloxi Blues? Africa hot, yeah Africa hot. Except it's not Africa, it's Georgia and Sam is dying here. Dad runs next to him on his right. Dad is breathing normal, sweat dripping down his head, the front and back of his tee shirt is drenched. But Dad is running solid, no problems and except for an occasional glance in Sam's direction, you would think he is just out for a morning jog. This jog is up to five miles and Winchesters don't jog like pansy ass girls, no they run. Dean's on his left, running like he could do this for a fuckin' month. He lopes along like a wolf, casually eating up the black top. Sam thinks he may be dead already. Nah, impossible, because if he was dead he wouldn't feel this bad.
The nausea has backed off a bit, unfortunately it was after he hurled up last nights pizza, but the headache. It pounds with every step he takes. That muzzy, disoriented feeling is there too, the feeling isn't really vague though because nothing feels vague, it's all right there sitting at the top of his throat like he might start ralphing again. But he won't. He slows just a bit and Dad and Dean pull away easily. Maybe know one will notice if he just stops and drops dead right here on this abandon looking road in Bumfuck, Georgia.
"Sam…get your ass up here." Dad barks, harsh and unforgiving.
Sam pushes harder, drags himself up to Dean and Dad, but he thinks he may have ruptured something doing it because there is no way a person can possibly feel this bad and not have injured something. Wouldn't that just piss the hell out of the old man. Killed by training, not a single supernatural monster any where to be seen. Would serve him right too. For a minute, Sam allows himself to think of Dad at his funeral. Dad would feel bad that he ran Sam to death. He might even speak at his eulogy. Maybe. Two more strides and the urge to hurl hits big time, he stops and pukes on the side of the road, nothing really in there though, just watery, yellow bile.
Up ahead, Dean taps Dad. They both stop. A flicker of concern crosses Dad's face but mostly he just looks pissed that his run is interrupted. Sam wonders if he imagined it. It probably wasn't concern, just a cramp or something. Dad leans onto his thighs, takes a deep breath. Dean runs back to Sam, drops a sweaty hand to Sam's neck, whispers low.
"C'mon Sammy, house is right around the bend." He offers his other hand to Sam and pulls him up, claps him on the back.
Sam staggers a few steps and then settles. Just around the bend, he can do this. He and Dean reach Dad, and again continue down the road. Sam watches the heat, always a few steps in front of him, just waves and waves of roasting air. The sweat isn't even dripping into his eyes, his hair is wicking it down straight to the collar of his shirt. Was a whitish gray, now it two shades darker and not a spot isn't wet.
There is a dirt road leads to a gray farmhouse, either side is covered with scrub and rocks. Sam doubts anything could have ever been grown at this particular farm. They have been here for two months and the ramshackle house has never really felt like home but when Sam sees the road, he could almost kiss that red Georgia clay. They turn all three onto the road and Dad and Dean sprint to the house, because someone has to win. Sometimes it is Dad. Sometimes Dean, today Dean pushes a head at the last second, crosses the invisible finish line, arms raised in Rocky like victory.
"Whooped your ass, Dad." Dean grins and howls like he has just won an Olympic marathon.
Sam hits the patch of what passes for grass in front of the house like he can't even stop. Except he can, because that is all he can think about. Stopping. He sinks to his knees almost in supplication.
He lays his head down, knowing that Dad will be on him in a second with his cool down speech. Sam watches Dad as he shakes the sweat from his head. This is Sam's idea of cool down, just to lay here on the slightly cooler grass. Breathe in, breathe out.
Dad nods in Sam's general direction, tosses a bottle of water to his youngest. "Sam. Little sips. And don't get yourself too comfortable. Dean and I are done but you have two more miles."
Sam doesn't even roll his eyes, he can't get the energy to lift his head off the grass. He does manage to roll over facing the burning morning sun, tasting salty sweat as it drips into his mouth. He thinks he may have rolled onto one of those damn rocks that this farm seems to be growing.
"Dad, you have got to be kidding me?" It's not really a question. Sam looks at Dad. Dad's not kidding.
"Y'know, Sam. Maybe if you came in beforecurfew last night. And you weren't …" John waves his hand, searches for a phrase that would fit "drunker than a barrel full of monkeys, then I doubt you would be feeling like this. Not that easy to train hungover huh?"
Dad looms over Sam offers a patented John Winchester glare. For a minute, Sam thinks he is in for it, but instead Dad drops to a crouch next to Sam, elbows resting on his knees. He seems to consider the boy.
"OK, Sam." Dad stops to think a moment "Two miles or two weeks?" And that's not really a question either.
Sam groans, the headache he has is a 6.9 and is threatening to split his head apart.
"Two weeks." Sam doesn't have to think. He just lays his head back in the grass trying to level his breathing out.
Dad stands up, blows heavily, "Dean...give your brother a hand cooling down, don't want him any sicker than he is." He is headed to the house as he speaks, doesn't bother to look at Dean or Sam. They both know what to do.
Dad walks up the steps of the house, opens the screen door and it slams behind him, bounces in the door jam once.
Sam watches Dean as he walks over to him, Dean leans down, taps Sam gently with the toe of his shoe.
"Dude, you so fucked that one up. Always choose the run, have I taught you nothing?" Dean reaches around to his brother's arm and bodily hauls him to his feet. Dean takes a wiff, wrinkles his nose. "You reek Sammy, what were you drinking last night?"
Sam looks at Dean. "Southern Comfort, and Colt 45."
Dean eyes his little brother appreciatively, "Dude, you got bigger balls than I did at 15. You never, never mix your poisons. What the hell were you thinkin'?."
"Dunno, don't remember." Sam's stomach rolls at the thought. He allows himself to lean on Dean.
"I'm sure you don't remember, it is a miracle that you made it in the front door last night. You're lucky the old man is feeling generous." Dean looks pointedly at the front door. "I oughta kick your ass just on principle." He drops his voice, shakes his head in awe. "Southern Comfort and Colt 45. What did Billy Joe Bob do - dare you or something?"
Sam looks at his brother and for the first time today, the smile is genuine. "Yeah, it was Billie Jo. Billie with an IE and yup she dared me," Sam drops his head, feeling the slow burn of a blush crawl up his neck "or something."
"That's my boy" Dean grins and tries to ruffle Sam's hair but instead it just squishes the sweat around.
Dean loops his arm around his brother, pulls him in conspiratorially, "Next time dude, stick with one or the other. Makes the two miles a hell of a lot easier than being grounded for two weeks."