This is a fun little bit I hope you enjoy. Sam needs some recognition and appreciation for taking care of himself.
People think Dean is the competitive brother. But they have not seen Sam in action. When he finds something to fight for, Sam is a beast. But it needs to be something that interests him enough to accept a challenge. Like running, for instance.
Dean doesn't understand why people work out and eat healthy. So when Sam and I go on runs and order salads, he makes a face and offers some snarky comment. But he doesn't understand runners high. If he did, Dean might reconsider his opinion. Sam and I are exercise buddies: we constantly push each other. Take last week, for instance: the two of us ran three miles before Dean even woke up. Of course, that may be because each person was trying to one-up the other; we started off at a steady pace after stretching, which turned into a brisk jog, and eventually an all-out sprint. Neither one of us were willing to let the other beat us. I am not losing to my little brother, and Sam will not be beat by a girl. But who's counting?
Being the health zealots we are, Sam and I want to convert one of the rooms in the Bunker into a gym: weights, machines, heavy balls, TV. The works. We pressured and annoyed Dean to the point of consent. Taking a rusty truck from the garage, we drove to the nearest sports warehouse. Dean drew the line at some contraption with buttons to rival a space rocket, but we left with enough to make Sam and I leave him alone. It took some time, but when we finished, even Dean was impressed. We had completely converted the room.
It is early in the morning when I step into the training room, music in hand. Sam is already there, sitting on the floor and reaching for his toes. It's amazing there is enough space for his long legs to fully extend. After stretching, each of us go to our preferred machines. Sam climbs onto the treadmill and I take my place on the stair stepper. I put in my earbuds and he turns on the TV, watching the morning news. For thirty minutes, we stay in our own little worlds. There is a burn in my legs, but out of the corner of my eye, I see Sam maintaining his steady pace. I will not be the first one to quit. After another twenty minutes, neither of us have stopped. In fact, we have each increased our paces. My legs were going to fall off, I am sure. I have probably climbed the equivalent of Mount Everest by now. Sam's face is beet red and there is not a dry sliver of cloth on him. He never turns fully in my direction, but every so often I see his eyes move sideways. Our breaths are ragged and movements forced, but stopping is out of the question.
"Where are you two?" Dean's voice echoes through the Bunker. There is no response. He checks the garage. All vehicles are accounted for. He checks his siblings' rooms again. Nothing. Inspiration strikes and he heads for the last remaining place. He should have checked there first. Sticking his head through the door, Dean is met with a startling sight. His brother is sprawled on the floor, practically hyperventilating and looking like he will pass out any second. His sister is retching into the trash can. Between heaves, her back shakes with massive pants. Both are drenched in sweat.
"What in the hell happened in here?" But he cannot get a complete answer, for the incapacitated two are unable to speak in full sentences.
"Worked...out….good...hard…"
"See, that's why you don't do it," Dean shakes his head while offering a hand to Sam. The sweaty man sits up and Dean presses his head between his knees and orders him to control his breathing. He does not need Sasquatch standing up right now, lest he pass out and fall down go boom. Next, he turns to his sister and holds her wet hair back. When she is done puking, he helps her up. She gets her knees under her, but they are slick with sweat and slide on the tile floor. She flops onto her stomach with an "oomph!" and lays there for several minutes, trying to regain the breaths that were smacked from her lungs. Dean stands gazing at the pitiful sight before him. The poor things, they don't know what's good for them.
"Sam, have you seen Dean?" Sam shakes his head and we begin the hunt for him. We meet up in the hall after ten minutes. There is one final place to look, but it is near impossible he would be in there. But Hell must have frozen over, because when we crack the door, we see Dean wheezing and cursing while trotting on the treadmill. Sharing a horrified and incredulous expression with my younger brother, we quietly ease the door closed. At least Dean's taking better care of himself. Of course, it only lasts about a week. But hey, who's counting?