Sam sat in the straight-backed chair, staring at the white wall in front of him. It was a fairly boring thing to look at, but his other choices were a plain white wall to his left, a plain white wall to his right, or a half-dead yucca at the end of the corridor.

He so did not want to be here.

In the next room, behind the frosted glass door, he could hear Dean trying to argue his case. He was twenty five, and he had his big brother trying to dig him out of his messes.

"Look, he knows the rules, he knows the game, he's an athlete…"

"Good for him." Came the second voice, the voice of the man they had come here to see. Sam looked up at the name, printed black on the door. Gabriel Garrison, showbiz agent. Shame they weren't there to talk about showbiz.

"Bobby thinks he can fight."

"Then Bobby can train him! I'm done, Dean, I'm not having anything to do with it."

"Oh come on! Didn't you say you'd come back if you found the next champ? I'm offering him on a silver plate…"

Ew, Dean. Sam felt even more uncomfortable now, trying very hard to think of an angle where he wasn't being sold by his brother. Because that's exactly what was happening, really. Sam got kicked out of college with no money and no funds. He couldn't find a job, so he was living on Dean's couch and trying desperately to get by. In this situation, it's probably normal for the elder brother to offer the younger one a job where they worked, and probably normal to have to sit still and listen to the elder brother argue for it.

Not so much when your brother's "job" is fighting in an illegal underground wrestling ring. Even less when he's trying to talk a trainer out of retirement because no one else wanted to risk taking on a down and out law student.

"No way! I'm done. I've got a life, and I'm doing both myself and your brother a favour by not signing him on."

"But he wants to fight. You haven't even seen him yet!"

"Get out of my office. Go, and never darken my towels again."

Sam stood, hearing Dean shout about how weird the guy was. Words like 'freak' would probably mean their meeting was coming to a close. He sighed heavily as Dean flung open the door.

"Fine. If you won't take him, at least come out here and say it to his face.

Dean stormed out of the office, shooting Sam a quick wink as he stepped back. Sam felt so very, very unclean.

"Fine, it means that much to…" Gabriel trailed off as he stepped out of his office and laid eyes on Sam. Or, rather, laid eyes on Sam's collar-bone, which was about head-level with him. "Wow."

"He's tall." Dean said, ever the master of casual redundancy. "Six and a half foot high, three across... he's made for wrestling."

Sam glared at Dean, wondering exactly how long he'd have to spend in the shower before he didn't feel dirty.

"Yeah… if we put him on diet and regime… no! No." Gabriel seemed to be talking more to himself than anyone. He glared at Sam. "Look, kiddo, I'm sure you're a swell guy, but I am not doing that job any more. I could get arrested for even having this conversation with you. I'm not going back in."

"Please." Sam said, figuring he may as well try.

"Oh, and it speaks." Gabriel responded, looking very much like he regretted ever opening his office door. "The whole package."

"I need the money. Really bad. Just… let me show you what I can do."

Gabriel hesitated. And, as Dean had often told Sam, in the world of wrestling, hesitation is what you do before you get your ass handed to you.

That was how they ended up, seven hours later, in the old garage warehouse at the back of Bobby's salvage yard. That was where Dean trained every day, and now Sam was about to do something he hadn't done since he was seventeen.

He was about to try and kick Dean "The Holy Sword" Winchester's ass. Dean was already stripped down to his "costume"; a worn pair of jeans and what were essentially black, high-topped slippers. He wasn't wearing his Mexican wrestler mask, thank god, because Sam felt stupid enough as it was. Bobby stood at the side of the ring, scowling at them both.

"I've got other things I could be doing."

"Yeah, well, don't bitch at us, Bobby. We're both here."

Sam pulled off his shirt and stood in his tracksuit pants, very aware of how untrained he was. Dean grinned at him.

"Don't worry, I'll go easy on you."

"Ok, I'm here." Gabriel entered without anyone having heard him approach, and strolled up to the ring like he belonged. Which, Sam supposed, he did. Bobby rolled his eyes.

"You never could be on time."

"Sue me. You wouldn't be the first. Alright, kids, let's get this show on the road."

Sam nodded, edging away from the cage. Oh, did he not mention it was cage wrestling? Yeah, it was illegal cage wrestling. When the fuck did his life get like this?

Contemplation wasn't really a luxury Sam could be afforded, though, as Dean ploughed into his side. Being smaller than Sam (but then, who wasn't), but still strong, Dean could easily duck under his brother's arms and go straight for the stomach. The thick metal bit disapprovingly into Sam's back as he was driven against it like a cow on a level crossing.

Sam was only beaten for a moment, mustering up the strength to push back into the centre. He reached over Dean's back and grabbed his legs, pulling them out so they both collapsed onto the canvas, Dean struggling to move Sam's weight off him.

That was the problem with illegal wrestling matches. Or, one of them. They weren't fixed like the pro matches, or written as part of some grand story arc to make it more entertaining. It was all about who could pound who into the ground, and still stand up unaided. Dean kicked Sam off him and gained some distance.

While Sam was still struggling to his feet, his brother landed full force on his back. Dean was smaller, quicker and better trained, but Sam had brute force on his side and, pulling himself up by Dean's shoulders, he managed to arm-lock him, trip him, and put him to the canvas. That was when, if they were in a match, he would be expected to kick him until he submitted.

"I'm out." Dean yelled, grinning inexplicably as Sam let him up. His brother was clearly a glutton for punishment. "Good job; nice to know you haven't lost your touch."

"Yeah, great." Sam muttered, turning to Gabriel. "So?"

"The kid's good." Bobby said, swinging open the cage door so he could throw Dean his shirt. In a real mach, that door would be locked shut. "I'd train him myself, if I didn't have my hands full being PA to this diva."

"Screw you, old man." Dean advised, and received half his water bottle to his face for his troubles.

Gabriel looked Sam over, eyes narrowed as he sunk deep into thought.

"You did always say you wanted to train a champ." Bobby leant against the side of the ring, raising an eyebrow at the ex-trainer. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm glad you found your way out of this, but if you've got a chance to do it…"

"Come on, Gabriel." Dean grinned, ducking through the door to the cage. "How cool would he be once he'd been trained up and kitted out?"

"It ain't easy." He said, staring up at Sam. "You get that, right? It's going to be hard work. If you want to come out of there each night with that pretty face of yours intact, you've got to have one hundred percent precision. Near enough isn't good enough."

"I know." Sam nodded.

"You can kiss your social life good bye. I mean, I don't know how Bobby's got Dean training, but I run a tight program. I'll be monitoring your alcohol intake, your calories, your daily activities… You won't see your girlfriend for the next three months, at least."

"I don't have one." Sam shrugged, truthfully.

"You really want to do this? Really? Because, once you do, there's a good chance you'll be stuck with it for life."

"I need a job. Nowhere will hire me. Please."

"Alright. I can't believe I'm saying this but… You might be it. My one last shot at the big title." Gabriel pushed away from the bars, looking like he'd just had the job of telling Sam his dog had died, rather than him getting a job.

Gabriel was already half way to the doors out of the barn, the orange light from outside silhouetting him.

"Thanks." Sam called, feeling oddly lost and awkward now that he'd attained this new position. He didn't know what he was expecting, but a 'congratulations, you passed' wouldn't go amiss.

"Don't thank me yet. Be at the gym on twenty third and main, tomorrow morning. Like, seven a.m. We're going to start seeing what you can do. And wear some better work-out gear; much as I enjoyed seeing your ass, the punters aren't so open-minded."

And he left.

Sam felt oddly ashamed, and it was only in part due to his baggy sweatpants.

(-*-)

The next morning, Sam was off of Dean's death-trap of a hand-me-down pull-out couch bright and early. His muscles screamed in pain, and they were right to do so. He was too long for the pull out couch, he was too wide for the pull-out couch (especially since he had a habit of sprawling when he slept) and, of course, he was made of human flesh, not fucking Kevlar.

Wasn't like he was going to complain or anything, though. If he didn't want to be sleeping on Dean's couch, he shouldn't have gotten kicked out of college and dumped at the same time.

That was four months ago, though, and four months of sleeping on the Couch of Doom And Improper Lumbar Support would be enough to externalise anyone's internal pain. Grabbing himself a breakfast burrito and a bottle of water out of the fridge, Sam put his newer, stronger-waistband pair of sweat-pants and an old t-shirt before storming down to the gym. He wanted to hit things, today.

When he got to the gym, Gabriel was already there, leaning up against the doors.

"Hey, Sammy. Let's move." So saying, he strolled masterfully away from the gym.

"Wha… aren't we going in?"

"You think I'm going to waste my money on that sink-hole? No way, kid. Follow." So saying, he led the way to an expansive park. Already feeling wrong-footed, Sam followed.

"Did you know…" Gabriel said as they reached the top of the hill, "that from where we're standing to that tree down there is exactly a tenth of a mile."

"Really?" Sam said, wondering why Gabriel was telling him this.

"Yup." Gabriel threw himself down on a nearby bench. "Get running."

"What?"

"Get running. If you run to that tree and back five times, you'll have run a mile. I'm timing you, by the way."

"And what are you going to be doing?"

"Timing you." Gabriel repeated, shooting a glare at Sam. "None too sharp, there, Sammy. Besides, I also have the important task of coming up with your persona."

"My persona." Sam nodded, realising with horror that he was starting to miss the Couch of Doom.

"You know. Your name, your costume, your gimmick." Gabriel reclined on the bench, grinning up at Sam. "We may not be like the pros in terms of pulling power, or payroll… or union perks… insurance or anything else, but every wrestler has to have a gimmick."

Sam stared at him for a moment, wondering if it was too late to back out.

"Well? Get running." Gabriel started a stop watch, and Sam obediently, if reluctantly, did so.

Sam wasn't unhealthy. Yes, he was suffering from four months on the Couch of Doom, and yes, this morning he'd been an utter idiot and gone for a breakfast burrito of all things, but on the whole he was in fairly good shape. He made the first run in three minutes, and when he made it back to the bench, Gabriel looked at him.

"How about 'Gigantor'?"

"No."
"Keep running."

He made the second run in two and a half minutes.

"Samsquatch?"

"No."

"Keep going."

The third run took two minutes.

"Bigfoot?"

"I'm not liking this line of thought."

"Shut up and run."

The fourth run took two minutes.

"Mighty Moose, destroyer of worlds?"

"Hell no."

"Picky, picky, picky."

The fifth run took a minute and forty seven seconds.

"Look at that, you're getting faster."

"Yeah." Sam gasped, swigging from his water bottle before stretching his tired legs. "It's been a while since I've really done much exercise; I guess I'm getting back into it."

"Well, you total a time of eleven minutes, seventeen seconds. That's a little slower than average, although the hill does add to your time… If we can get this down to ten, you'll be in shape." Gabriel stood, hands in his pockets, and wandered off. "Come on, kid."

"Where are we going now?"

"Working on your upper body strength. Kiddo, if this relationship is going to work, you'll have to stop asking so many questions."

Sam took another gulp of water, and quickly caught up with Gabriel's shorter strides.

"If this relationship is going to work, you'll have to stop calling me 'kiddo'."

"Kid?"

"That too."

"Junior?"

"Yeah."

"Dammit, why'd I have to get the boring Winchester?" Gabriel smirked at him, and Sam really wondered what he'd let himself in for.