Supernatural Exercise fic - Resistance Training
Good news - there are actually some flights leaving Belfast in October. Looks like I will be able to get to see Alexis after all. *does the dance of fannish (geek) joy*
I poked at the exercise fic and managed to finish it. It got angsty. So nothing new there. I spend an inordinate amount of time reading about marine fitness programmes while writing this. Ah, the hardships we have to bear for fic research.
TITLE: Resistance Training
RATING: PG13 (gen)
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam and John
DISCLAIMER: If I owned them, there'd be a lot more of this sort of thing in the show. You know, the sweaty glistening muscles sort of thing.
NOTES: 2200 words. Set pre-series. Dean POV. Sam undergoes some resistance training.
Dean knows something’s up the minute he gets back.
Dad’s at the kitchen sink, washing the dishes that Dean’s pretty sure he already did last night. The saucepan Dad’s scrubbing looks cleaner now than when they moved in two months ago.
“Hey.” Dean goes to the refrigerator, gets himself a bottle of iced water.
“You’ll get cramp.” Dad doesn’t look at him, but keeps focused on the base of the saucepan, like he’s trying to scrub a layer of aluminum off of it.
Dean takes a drink, and resists the urge to gulp down the wonderfully glacial mouthful. Holds it in his mouth till it approaches body temperature, then swallows slowly. He does it a couple more times, and watches Dad carefully.
He’s scouring the pan base, but he’s looking out the window the whole time, his jaw tight with tension. Dean’s come to recognize that look, and has a pretty good idea as to its cause.
“Sam home?” He says it casually, pretending like he doesn’t know Sam’s the reason for Dad’s tense mood. Actually, when he thinks about it, Sam is pretty much always the reason for Dad’s tensest moods, but on the whole, Dean tries not to think about that too much.
Dad’s chin lifts a little, jerks towards the window. “Outside. PT.”
That’s not like Sam. Dad and Sam go the rounds over training nearly every night now; Sam insisting that homework comes first, while Dad wants him out training before he starts in on school stuff. Usually it ends up with Dean talking Dad into letting them both train together after supper, and Sam gets to be a great big dork in peace.
Sam had some parent-teacher conference thing at school today, and Dad said he’d go, so Dean had taken advantage of the free time this afternoon to go for a run. The weather was hot and humid, but it was kind of nice to be able to run in daylight for a change.
He’d headed up to the lake where Sam and he practiced sometimes, and got into a real nice rhythm, so much so that he’d done two extra laps. He’d cooled off with a swim, and took the run home at a steady pace, the sun on his back pleasantly warming after the chill of lake water
He’s starting to regret the extra Ks now, and not just because of the burn in his calf muscles. Something had happened between Sam and Dad, and usually if Dean was around he could soothe frayed nerves and tempers on both sides. Most of the time.
Now, instead, he was stuck trying to discover what the hell had gone on before he got home, and then figure out how the hell he was going to fix it.
“School thing go okay?” Dean leans against the counter, his T-shirt sticking in the small of his back, suddenly clammy.
Dad’s grunt is non-committal, but there’s a tightening of the nerve in his cheek that tells Dean he’s hit the jackpot. He tries to imagine what Sammy could have done in school to piss his teacher off, and fails. Sam is the model student. ‘A’s in every subject. A teacher’s wet dream.
“You know he’s on the debate team?” Dad asks casually.
It’s not casual. If ever he heard a loaded question, that’s one. However Dean answers he’s damned. If he doesn’t know, then it’s ‘You meet him after school every day, how the hell could you not know?’ and if he does know, it’s ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’
For the record, he didn’t know. Tuesdays and Thursdays he meets Sam later at the library; Sam said it was so he could study in peace. Dean feels a stab of anger that Sam lied, didn’t trust him enough to tell him, but it dissipates pretty quickly when he realizes what Dad probably put Sam through when he found out.
“I think he might have said something about it.” Dean leaves that open to interpretation, willing to take a little of the heat that has surely come his brother’s way.
“Going to the state finals. Apparently I signed the permission slip.” The scouring pad screeches across the bottom of the pan.
Shit. Fuck. Sam, you fucking idiot. Dean sighs inwardly, tries to think of something to say that will make this better. He can’t. Sam’s really done it this time, lying to Dad, compounded by forgery. Pretty much a hanging offence in Dad’s book.
“He’s been training since you got home?” Dean stays where he is, though he wants desperately to look out into the yard.
Dad’s face is hard. “He can stop any time he’s ready to apologize.”
And of course Dad would make it an ultimatum. Make it so that Sam has to back down, say he’s wrong. Which he won’t do. Not while he has breath in his scrawny-assed body.
“You want me to go talk to him?” What he’s doing is dangerous. Dad’s in just enough of a shitty mood to get after him too, and Dean really doesn’t feel like doing another hour of PT. His muscles are begging for a hot bath, or at least a lukewarm shower, and definitely not more push ups and crunches, or those fucking wind sprints Dad’s so keen on.
“Do what you like, son.” There’s an edge to the word son; Dad’s tone is tinged with menace. “He stops only if he apologizes, you got that?”
“Yes, sir.” Dean pushes himself up off the counter, and his shirt sucks against his skin, slick with sweat.
Sam’s in the middle of a set of push ups when he opens the back door. Dean knows the routine. Push ups, followed by endurance crunches, then mountain climbers. The wind sprints are the killer at the end of a set, then you start all over again. Dean’s not sure how many sets Sam’s done, but from the look of him, it’s too many.
Sam is shaking. Not with cold, because it’s still hot as hell, even at six in the evening, but because his muscles are trembling with exertion. His thin cotton T-shirt is saturated; it sticks to his back, translucent with sweat. The veins in his upper arms are corded, and Dean can almost feel the sympathetic lactic acid burn in his own triceps.
“Sam.” He keeps his voice even and calm, and Sam ignores him, flips over onto his ass and takes position for the next set of crunches.
“Dude, get in there and tell him you’re sorry.”
A thin trickle of sweat traces from Sam’s hairline down his reddened cheek, drips off the point of his chin. “I’m not - ” Sam huffs out a breath and Dean hears that his voice is breaking “ - sorry.”
“So lie, asshole. Hear you’re pretty fucking expert at that.” Dean sits down on the porch step next to Sam’s feet, watches those gangly elbows meeting his knees every time. Even exhausted, kid’s got good form.
“Fuck you,” Sam grits out, and keeps pumping.
Dean wonders if fifteen’s too young for a heart attack. “Seriously, Sam, how long you been going?”
“Don’t know.” He’s sullen, but Dean can tell he’s near breaking point. God, they’re as bad as each other. Two stubborn bastards who would rather die before they admit they were wrong.
“You need to stop now, Sam. I’m not kidding.” Dean waits till Sam lies back and then presses down on his crossed arms, holding him lightly. Sam tries to struggle, but there’s no fight left in him.
“I won’t!” He’s half yelling, half sobbing, and Dean can’t tell if it’s sweat or tears that blind his brother. “I won’t apologize!”
Dean can’t allow it. “Okay, then. Don’t.” He keeps his hand on Sam’s arm, feels the muscle there twitch under his palm. “But you’re stopping now, okay?”
Sam doesn’t nod, doesn’t speak, but Dean feels him acquiesce; relax under his gentle grip.
“We’re going inside.” Dean lets up on the pressure, and Sam’s arms open, fall loosely at his sides. Dean waits for a bit, till Sam’s breathing evens out, then uncaps the water bottle, offers it to him.
“Take it slow.” Sam probably doesn’t need the reminder, but Dean gives it anyway, and Sam obeys, takes a mouthful of water and waits for it to warm a little before swallowing.
Dean lets him take a few more sips, and then helps him to his feet. Sam wobbles with exhaustion on legs made even more coltish by his latest growth spurt, and in the end Dean threads his arm under his brother’s, holding him steadily. It’s a testament to the extent of Sam’s fatigue that he lets himself be supported.
He leads his brother into the kitchen, walking in front of him so that he’s shielding Sam a little. Dad sets the pan down in the dish drainer, and then turns to face them, clearly waiting for the apology that he’s never going to get.
“Sam. You go on and get in the shower.” Dean keeps his tone respectful, but firm. He’s not backing down on this.
Sam stumbles to the kitchen door, while Dad takes one step, two, three towards him. Dean steps right in front of Dad, blocking his way to Sammy.
“Go on, Sam,” Dean orders quietly.
For once in his life, Sam obeys without arguing, and then it’s just Dean and Dad, standing almost toe to toe. Dean’s still shorter than Dad, has to look up to meet his eyes. He fights the urge to flinch at the anger he sees in Dad’s gaze.
“He wasn’t finished.” Dad’s voice is a low growl.
“He was finished.” Dean’s not sure what’s going to happen; he’s never openly defied the man before. Dad has never yet hit him in anger, but from the look of him Dean guesses there’s always a first time for everything. So he squares his shoulders. He watches Dad’s hands curl into fists. Dean lifts his chin and waits for it. Take it like a man.
The moment stretches, time expanding to occupy them wholly; then the distant thrum of Sam’s shower breaks the loaded silence. And Dad, somehow, unbelievably, takes a step back. Dean blinks. Dad’s fists unfurl, and his fingers dig down deep into the pockets of his jeans, hunching his shoulders forward.
Dean thinks he looks suddenly tired and worn and old.
“I’m sorry, Dad.” Unlike his little brother, Dean’s never had any trouble apologizing to him.
Dad drops his head, as if he’s laughing a little. “You’re full of crap, Dean.”
Dean nods. “Yes, sir.” It’s an answer that might get him a taste of what Sam got, but Dad just shakes his head slowly.
“I don’t know what I’m gonna do with him.” His voice is soft, lost like he never sounds. It scares Dean a little, because Dad always knows what to do.
“Dad, it was one stupid lie. He’ll apologize when he calms down.” Dean wishes he believed it himself.
Dad gives a resigned sigh. “I guess you’re right.” He doesn’t look like he believes it either. “You have a good run?”
Dean becomes aware of the low level burn in his calf muscles again. “Yeah. Did an extra two K.” He leans down, feels the ache in his back and realizes he hasn’t cooled down properly.
“Go do some stretches.” Dad’s order is gentle, but insistent.
“Yes, sir.” Dean heads towards the door, turning back as he opens it. “Dad -” He doesn’t quite know what he wants to say, but Dad, for once, seems to understand.
“Go on. I’ll leave him be.” Dad’s fingernails rasp across his sandpaper cheek. Upstairs the water shuts off, and Dean and Dad both pause at that, listening for Sam. Dean hears Sammy’s too big feet thudding across the bathroom floor, then the quiet groan of creaking springs as Sam crashes out on the ancient bed.
Then it’s quiet.
Dean goes into the back yard, and works through a set of stretches, trying not to think about Sam and Dad and the day when he won’t be able to make it right between them.
He reaches down to press his palms flat against the ground, feeling the pull in his hamstrings. Presses harder, his muscles screaming in protest. The ache is good, but it’s not enough to clear his mind.
He knows that day is coming. Sam and Dad are too alike, the same obstinate hot tempers that flare unthinkingly, wounding each other with a regularity that’s starting to worry Dean.
Dean stands up and pulls his arm behind his head, twisting his body to the side, pushing till it hurts. Then repeats the stretch on his left. He continues with the repetitions, pulling from side to side, straining to reach a little farther each time. But it’s not enough.
What worries him most is that this is the first time Sam has won. Worst of it is, it’s Dean’s fault. He helped Sam win against Dad, and Sam isn’t going to forget that feeling in a hurry.
Dean closes his eyes and wonders if he just made the biggest mistake of his life.
I poked at the exercise fic and managed to finish it. It got angsty. So nothing new there. I spend an inordinate amount of time reading about marine fitness programmes while writing this. Ah, the hardships we have to bear for fic research.
TITLE: Resistance Training
RATING: PG13 (gen)
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam and John
DISCLAIMER: If I owned them, there'd be a lot more of this sort of thing in the show. You know, the sweaty glistening muscles sort of thing.
NOTES: 2200 words. Set pre-series. Dean POV. Sam undergoes some resistance training.
Dean knows something’s up the minute he gets back.
Dad’s at the kitchen sink, washing the dishes that Dean’s pretty sure he already did last night. The saucepan Dad’s scrubbing looks cleaner now than when they moved in two months ago.
“Hey.” Dean goes to the refrigerator, gets himself a bottle of iced water.
“You’ll get cramp.” Dad doesn’t look at him, but keeps focused on the base of the saucepan, like he’s trying to scrub a layer of aluminum off of it.
Dean takes a drink, and resists the urge to gulp down the wonderfully glacial mouthful. Holds it in his mouth till it approaches body temperature, then swallows slowly. He does it a couple more times, and watches Dad carefully.
He’s scouring the pan base, but he’s looking out the window the whole time, his jaw tight with tension. Dean’s come to recognize that look, and has a pretty good idea as to its cause.
“Sam home?” He says it casually, pretending like he doesn’t know Sam’s the reason for Dad’s tense mood. Actually, when he thinks about it, Sam is pretty much always the reason for Dad’s tensest moods, but on the whole, Dean tries not to think about that too much.
Dad’s chin lifts a little, jerks towards the window. “Outside. PT.”
That’s not like Sam. Dad and Sam go the rounds over training nearly every night now; Sam insisting that homework comes first, while Dad wants him out training before he starts in on school stuff. Usually it ends up with Dean talking Dad into letting them both train together after supper, and Sam gets to be a great big dork in peace.
Sam had some parent-teacher conference thing at school today, and Dad said he’d go, so Dean had taken advantage of the free time this afternoon to go for a run. The weather was hot and humid, but it was kind of nice to be able to run in daylight for a change.
He’d headed up to the lake where Sam and he practiced sometimes, and got into a real nice rhythm, so much so that he’d done two extra laps. He’d cooled off with a swim, and took the run home at a steady pace, the sun on his back pleasantly warming after the chill of lake water
He’s starting to regret the extra Ks now, and not just because of the burn in his calf muscles. Something had happened between Sam and Dad, and usually if Dean was around he could soothe frayed nerves and tempers on both sides. Most of the time.
Now, instead, he was stuck trying to discover what the hell had gone on before he got home, and then figure out how the hell he was going to fix it.
“School thing go okay?” Dean leans against the counter, his T-shirt sticking in the small of his back, suddenly clammy.
Dad’s grunt is non-committal, but there’s a tightening of the nerve in his cheek that tells Dean he’s hit the jackpot. He tries to imagine what Sammy could have done in school to piss his teacher off, and fails. Sam is the model student. ‘A’s in every subject. A teacher’s wet dream.
“You know he’s on the debate team?” Dad asks casually.
It’s not casual. If ever he heard a loaded question, that’s one. However Dean answers he’s damned. If he doesn’t know, then it’s ‘You meet him after school every day, how the hell could you not know?’ and if he does know, it’s ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’
For the record, he didn’t know. Tuesdays and Thursdays he meets Sam later at the library; Sam said it was so he could study in peace. Dean feels a stab of anger that Sam lied, didn’t trust him enough to tell him, but it dissipates pretty quickly when he realizes what Dad probably put Sam through when he found out.
“I think he might have said something about it.” Dean leaves that open to interpretation, willing to take a little of the heat that has surely come his brother’s way.
“Going to the state finals. Apparently I signed the permission slip.” The scouring pad screeches across the bottom of the pan.
Shit. Fuck. Sam, you fucking idiot. Dean sighs inwardly, tries to think of something to say that will make this better. He can’t. Sam’s really done it this time, lying to Dad, compounded by forgery. Pretty much a hanging offence in Dad’s book.
“He’s been training since you got home?” Dean stays where he is, though he wants desperately to look out into the yard.
Dad’s face is hard. “He can stop any time he’s ready to apologize.”
And of course Dad would make it an ultimatum. Make it so that Sam has to back down, say he’s wrong. Which he won’t do. Not while he has breath in his scrawny-assed body.
“You want me to go talk to him?” What he’s doing is dangerous. Dad’s in just enough of a shitty mood to get after him too, and Dean really doesn’t feel like doing another hour of PT. His muscles are begging for a hot bath, or at least a lukewarm shower, and definitely not more push ups and crunches, or those fucking wind sprints Dad’s so keen on.
“Do what you like, son.” There’s an edge to the word son; Dad’s tone is tinged with menace. “He stops only if he apologizes, you got that?”
“Yes, sir.” Dean pushes himself up off the counter, and his shirt sucks against his skin, slick with sweat.
Sam’s in the middle of a set of push ups when he opens the back door. Dean knows the routine. Push ups, followed by endurance crunches, then mountain climbers. The wind sprints are the killer at the end of a set, then you start all over again. Dean’s not sure how many sets Sam’s done, but from the look of him, it’s too many.
Sam is shaking. Not with cold, because it’s still hot as hell, even at six in the evening, but because his muscles are trembling with exertion. His thin cotton T-shirt is saturated; it sticks to his back, translucent with sweat. The veins in his upper arms are corded, and Dean can almost feel the sympathetic lactic acid burn in his own triceps.
“Sam.” He keeps his voice even and calm, and Sam ignores him, flips over onto his ass and takes position for the next set of crunches.
“Dude, get in there and tell him you’re sorry.”
A thin trickle of sweat traces from Sam’s hairline down his reddened cheek, drips off the point of his chin. “I’m not - ” Sam huffs out a breath and Dean hears that his voice is breaking “ - sorry.”
“So lie, asshole. Hear you’re pretty fucking expert at that.” Dean sits down on the porch step next to Sam’s feet, watches those gangly elbows meeting his knees every time. Even exhausted, kid’s got good form.
“Fuck you,” Sam grits out, and keeps pumping.
Dean wonders if fifteen’s too young for a heart attack. “Seriously, Sam, how long you been going?”
“Don’t know.” He’s sullen, but Dean can tell he’s near breaking point. God, they’re as bad as each other. Two stubborn bastards who would rather die before they admit they were wrong.
“You need to stop now, Sam. I’m not kidding.” Dean waits till Sam lies back and then presses down on his crossed arms, holding him lightly. Sam tries to struggle, but there’s no fight left in him.
“I won’t!” He’s half yelling, half sobbing, and Dean can’t tell if it’s sweat or tears that blind his brother. “I won’t apologize!”
Dean can’t allow it. “Okay, then. Don’t.” He keeps his hand on Sam’s arm, feels the muscle there twitch under his palm. “But you’re stopping now, okay?”
Sam doesn’t nod, doesn’t speak, but Dean feels him acquiesce; relax under his gentle grip.
“We’re going inside.” Dean lets up on the pressure, and Sam’s arms open, fall loosely at his sides. Dean waits for a bit, till Sam’s breathing evens out, then uncaps the water bottle, offers it to him.
“Take it slow.” Sam probably doesn’t need the reminder, but Dean gives it anyway, and Sam obeys, takes a mouthful of water and waits for it to warm a little before swallowing.
Dean lets him take a few more sips, and then helps him to his feet. Sam wobbles with exhaustion on legs made even more coltish by his latest growth spurt, and in the end Dean threads his arm under his brother’s, holding him steadily. It’s a testament to the extent of Sam’s fatigue that he lets himself be supported.
He leads his brother into the kitchen, walking in front of him so that he’s shielding Sam a little. Dad sets the pan down in the dish drainer, and then turns to face them, clearly waiting for the apology that he’s never going to get.
“Sam. You go on and get in the shower.” Dean keeps his tone respectful, but firm. He’s not backing down on this.
Sam stumbles to the kitchen door, while Dad takes one step, two, three towards him. Dean steps right in front of Dad, blocking his way to Sammy.
“Go on, Sam,” Dean orders quietly.
For once in his life, Sam obeys without arguing, and then it’s just Dean and Dad, standing almost toe to toe. Dean’s still shorter than Dad, has to look up to meet his eyes. He fights the urge to flinch at the anger he sees in Dad’s gaze.
“He wasn’t finished.” Dad’s voice is a low growl.
“He was finished.” Dean’s not sure what’s going to happen; he’s never openly defied the man before. Dad has never yet hit him in anger, but from the look of him Dean guesses there’s always a first time for everything. So he squares his shoulders. He watches Dad’s hands curl into fists. Dean lifts his chin and waits for it. Take it like a man.
The moment stretches, time expanding to occupy them wholly; then the distant thrum of Sam’s shower breaks the loaded silence. And Dad, somehow, unbelievably, takes a step back. Dean blinks. Dad’s fists unfurl, and his fingers dig down deep into the pockets of his jeans, hunching his shoulders forward.
Dean thinks he looks suddenly tired and worn and old.
“I’m sorry, Dad.” Unlike his little brother, Dean’s never had any trouble apologizing to him.
Dad drops his head, as if he’s laughing a little. “You’re full of crap, Dean.”
Dean nods. “Yes, sir.” It’s an answer that might get him a taste of what Sam got, but Dad just shakes his head slowly.
“I don’t know what I’m gonna do with him.” His voice is soft, lost like he never sounds. It scares Dean a little, because Dad always knows what to do.
“Dad, it was one stupid lie. He’ll apologize when he calms down.” Dean wishes he believed it himself.
Dad gives a resigned sigh. “I guess you’re right.” He doesn’t look like he believes it either. “You have a good run?”
Dean becomes aware of the low level burn in his calf muscles again. “Yeah. Did an extra two K.” He leans down, feels the ache in his back and realizes he hasn’t cooled down properly.
“Go do some stretches.” Dad’s order is gentle, but insistent.
“Yes, sir.” Dean heads towards the door, turning back as he opens it. “Dad -” He doesn’t quite know what he wants to say, but Dad, for once, seems to understand.
“Go on. I’ll leave him be.” Dad’s fingernails rasp across his sandpaper cheek. Upstairs the water shuts off, and Dean and Dad both pause at that, listening for Sam. Dean hears Sammy’s too big feet thudding across the bathroom floor, then the quiet groan of creaking springs as Sam crashes out on the ancient bed.
Then it’s quiet.
Dean goes into the back yard, and works through a set of stretches, trying not to think about Sam and Dad and the day when he won’t be able to make it right between them.
He reaches down to press his palms flat against the ground, feeling the pull in his hamstrings. Presses harder, his muscles screaming in protest. The ache is good, but it’s not enough to clear his mind.
He knows that day is coming. Sam and Dad are too alike, the same obstinate hot tempers that flare unthinkingly, wounding each other with a regularity that’s starting to worry Dean.
Dean stands up and pulls his arm behind his head, twisting his body to the side, pushing till it hurts. Then repeats the stretch on his left. He continues with the repetitions, pulling from side to side, straining to reach a little farther each time. But it’s not enough.
What worries him most is that this is the first time Sam has won. Worst of it is, it’s Dean’s fault. He helped Sam win against Dad, and Sam isn’t going to forget that feeling in a hurry.
Dean closes his eyes and wonders if he just made the biggest mistake of his life.