A/N: Written for a contest at SFTCOL(AR)S last summer.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Warning: Language and some violence.
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The Way I Would Like to Be Buried
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The field was on the other side of the interstate from the trailer home park. Barren, dusty, and abandoned, Dad had declared it the perfect place for training the very first day they'd arrived.
Unfortunately, today wasn't about training.
Eight laps in, and Sam's chest was already aching like something inside of him was clawing to get out. His legs were dead, his thigh and calf muscles merely glue stuck to his bones.
Wearily, Sam raised an arm to his chest, as though the pressure of his palm against his sternum could force his pounding heart to slow down without Sam having to stop altogether. After all, John was watching – and he didn't tolerate weakness from his soldiers.
Especially not ones who smash up the Impala.
---
Sam had just finished making dinner when Dean stepped into the kitchen, his leather jacket in one hand and keys in another.
"Where are you going? I made mac'n'cheese," Sam said.
Dean was silent until Sam turned around. The gaze he had fixed on Sam was deadly. "Out."
Sam glanced at the clock. "But Dean, it's only five. Shouldn't you at least wait 'til it gets late enough for cards or –"
"Shut the fuck up, Sam," Dean growled, his voice conveying a hatred Sam had never heard directed at him before. Dean walked to the door and slammed it open before turning back to face his apprehensive little brother. "You didn't think I would find out, did you?"
Sam felt his fingers twitch, but otherwise gave no indication of his fear when he calmly asked, "Find out what, Dean?"
Dean shook his head and smirked, though it didn't reach his eyes. Sam gulped at the inner torture he saw reflected there.
"Just when were you planning on letting me know, huh, Sam? WHEN?"
Sam was shocked into silence, though Dean didn't seem to be expecting an answer, as he abruptly turned toward the front door and pulled the knob, the rusty hinges screeching as they were forced apart. "You ungrateful bastard," Dean whispered, right before he stepped all the way out, the door banging shut in his wake.
Sam didn't understand until he found the envelope on his bedroom floor. One of Dean's wristbands, a gift from Sam for his twenty-second birthday, lay on top of it.
It was a sign of discovery and betrayal both.
---
It was on the twelfth lap that Sam finally had to stop and just breathe.
The heat was past unbearable, and moving into deathly. As though just stepping outside in southern Tennessee in the middle of August wasn't already bad enough; but to compound it with running over 26 miles nonstop in the middle of the afternoon?
He could taste the sour dryness in his mouth, just one of his body's many attempts to let Sam know it needed water. In an effort to ignore it, Sam kept convulsively swallowing. He'd already thrown up a little bit of stomach acid two laps ago, and he didn't want a repeat performance if he could avoid it.
He could feel his father's eyes on the back of his neck, and knew that if he didn't get himself together soon and start running again, there'd be hell to pay when he finished the lap. With one last fleeting sigh, he trudged onward, timing his breaths more evenly then before.
In... Out... In... Out...
The familiar words became a mantra as he ran on, delaying fate.
---
Dean didn't return 'til past three. Sam was still awake, sitting at the kitchen table, when he heard the Impala role up the driveway.
But instead of coming in, he heard Dean roar, "Sam! Get your ass out here!"
Taking a moment to thank God that Dad wouldn't be back from his hunt for at least a few more hours, Sam stepped outside. Dean was leaning against the hood of the car, clearly drunk. His gaze was livid as he stared his brother down while Sam cautiously made his way up to Dean.
"Come on, Dean, let's just go inside," Sam pleaded. "It's hot as hell out here and you need to get to bed."
"Get to bed? You're going to tell me what to do, after all this?" Dean yelled, his face twisting in disgust, and Sam shivered despite the heat. Dean's grin widened cruelly at Sam's reaction, and he huffed out a mirthless laugh as he began to stagger wildly towards Sam, his arms flung skyward and his footsteps reverberating across the cracked, sun-soaked cement. "You know what? Fuck you."
Dean's fist was slamming forward too fast and Sam knew he wouldn't move in time.
---
The Impala sat in the southeast corner of the field, the broken window facing Sam every time he lumbered by.
"Thought you might need a reminder why," Dad had explained right before he'd started the short walk back down the road, sometime between laps fourteen and fifteen. "The keys are on the seat. Water bottles too. You know what to do."
Stumbling past the window again, his body cooking under the sun, Sam knew he was supposed to feel ashamed, submissive. And for once, in all of his dozens of punishments, Sam truly did.
But not for the reason Dad thought he should.
---
Just as Dean brought his arm down, his drunken dizziness overcame him and he stumbled forward. Instead of smashing Sam's nose as he'd intended, his fist connected with the driver's window of the Impala. Sam watched in horror as the glass crumbled to hundreds of pieces before his eyes.
"Jesus, Dean! Are you okay?"
Dean stared at the broken window, before looking back at his hand, which was miraculously unscathed but for a few shallow cuts.
"Are you okay, man?" Sam asked again, rubbing his brother's arm soothingly.
"I don't deserve this." It was said almost beatifically, but to Sam Dean looked only beaten.
With effort, Dean's bloodshot eyes glanced up into his brother's frightened ones, and it was all Sam could do not to turn away and run for all he was worth, unable to face the emotions there. "I don't deserve this," Dean repeated, his ragged voice trembling as it betrayed his thoughts. "You know I don't deserve – you hafta know – why aren't I worth – fuck you an' Dad and – God – 'M not – never gonna be always – hate myself –"
Dean's eyes rolled downward as he passed out.
---
It was past six by the time Sam finished all 42,195 meters. Dad had said his performance better be good enough for a marathon, and Sam had taken him at his word.
Dean was sitting on the steps of their sorry excuse for a porch when Sam pulled into the driveway. Sam could see he was nursing a beer, despite all the drinking he'd done not so many hours ago. Dean's eyes were hooded, his gaze seemingly indifferent as he sat up and walked over to the driver's side, opening Sam's door for him as he casually took another swig from his bottle.
His face guarded, Sam achingly stepped out of the Impala, staring down at his feet the entire time. Carefully, Dean shut the door, than leaned against the hood, his fingers nervously rapping on the sleek black surface. Sam wasn't stupid; he knew an oncoming apology when he saw one.
But standing there next to his brother, in the heat of the evening, their broken window and their broken relationship laid bare between them, Sam realized he didn't need to hear it.
Dean startled as Sam put a hand on his shoulder, before lifting his eyes to his brother's piercing gaze.
"This wasn't your fault, Dean," Sam whispered, biting his lip. "This one's on me."
Dean's eyes narrowed into slits, green hardly peeking through, and he seemed to consider Sam's words for a moment before he smiled sorrowfully. "No," he answered, rubbing his neck. "No, Sammy. You didn't deserve... just, shut up. No."
---
By the time Sam had gotten Dean settled to sleep off the alcohol, the truck was just pulling up in the driveway.
Sam could hear him swearing up a storm before he even came inside.
For once, Sam let his father think what he wanted to. Let him think Sam had done it while angry with Dean for something. Let him curse Sam out before telling him he'd be doing laps in the heat all day as penance.
Sam let his father think what he wanted to, and was silent throughout.
Maybe he couldn't stay for Dean. But he could do this.
---
John was in the kitchen cleaning guns when Sam entered.
"Where's your brother?" his dad asked without glancing at Sam.
Sam tossed the keys on the table, before wiping his sweaty forehead with his forearm. "Out front. He wanted to take a good look at the window, I guess."
"So," John said, "you worked hard out there today?"
Sam nodded, biting his tongue.
"Good," John said with a smile, polishing the last rifle. "I knew we could work all that anger out of you, get some discipline in there instead."
John wiped his hands, than came to stand in front of Sam, an almost regretful look on his face.
"I didn't want to have to do that, Sam. But you have to learn to stop acting like a child, and I just don't know any other way to get that through your head. It's time for you be a man, son. You're eighteen now, and I can't afford to wait any longer for you to grow up."
Sam stared hard into his father's eyes before slowly nodding. "I can't afford to wait any longer either."
John smiled up at him before turning back to pack the guns, hearing Sam's footfalls retreat to his bedroom. "Good. That's good," Sam heard him murmur to himself.
Only moments later Sam returned. "Dad?"
In Sam's hands, held out towards John, there was an envelope with an oversized, ornate 'S' emblazoned on the lower left corner.
"There's something I need you to read."