RAMBO TRAINING

Tag

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You gotta understand somethin'. After your mother passed, all I saw was evil. Everywhere. And all I cared about was, was keepin' you boys alive. I wanted you prepared. Ready. So somewhere along the line I uh, I stopped being your father, and I, I became your, your drill-sergeant ~

John Winchester - Dead Man's Blood 1x20

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"Dad doesn't work like that, Sam, and you know it."

"Why does it have to be this hard?"

Dean pulled Sam to his feet. "Same reason you're so damn short," he laughed.

Sam shoved Dean away and headed down the path back toward camp.

"Sam!"

"Not talking to you, Dean." He picked up his pace.

"Aw, Sammy, come on." Dean jogged over to the rucksack, shouldering and quickly following behind Sam. "Sam. Wait up."

Man his dad and brother were like peanut butter and jelly. Whether they knew it or not they just went together.

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They sat quietly grouped around the burning campfire, the warmth and glow emanating out into the darkness.

The hunt was three days behind them now. The boys had gone back and burned the cabin down for good measure, while John nursed his leg wound with a few pills and a bottle of whiskey. But tonight John preferred to feel the pain.

He sipped at his coffee gripped tightly in his right hand, mesmerized by the fire. The ashes glowed red- burning hot, bluish-orange flames licking at the logs as if to taste them before ingesting. Wisps of black smoke swirled around the flickering blaze, sparks popping and shooting upward, but then quickly dying out.

Fire…it was a living breathing monster he knew he could never kill.

John took another sip of coffee swallowing harshly, the thumb of his left hand gently caressing the picture he held there. God, he would forever smell her flesh burning in his nostrils, taste her death on his tongue, the horror and trauma would never fade from him–body or soul.

He stared across the fire at Sam who held a long roasting stick in his hand, jabbing a white, puffy marshmallow onto the pointy end.

He was damn proud of that boy. Sam had used every ounce of strength and heart and determination. Sure the kid was shaken up, but he wasn't broken.

John recalled his first hunt, alone in a deep dark cave. He'd gone into his first hunt solo, full of grit, only to stumble out shaken to his very core dropping to his knees and crying quietly, face in the dirt. The six-eyed, mouth full of teeth giant worm was dead, sure, but he'd barely escaped alive. He'd trudged from the mouth of that cave an exhausted, bloody, sweaty, emotional mess. He'd thought killing something would quell the awful pain of losing Mary. But the power of his grief was beyond his wildest dreams and the storm inside him had only grown stronger. It was after that first kill he knew there was only one way to stop his pain. He had to leave his old life behind. Take his boys far away from their warm, loving home and hit the road. Train them up. Find and kill the thing that killed Mary.

He glanced over at Dean whittling a sharp point to his own roasting fork. After that night...the boy had been traumatized to not speaking, his boyhood life changed forever. But the four-year-old had bucked up fast, faster than he could ever have imagined. Even while Dean still wasn't talking, he'd picked up the slack when John couldn't even find the strength to roll out of bed. Dean took care of Sam. Feeding, changing, and bathing the infant, snot-sucking his nose with that weird blue thingy.

Sam was Dean's salvation.

Dean's first hunt had gone down without a hitch. John literally had to grab the knife from the eleven-year-old, prying it away from his gripping fingers as the boy wouldn't stop killing the berserker that was already long dead. It was as if Dean was born to the life. There was something primal and fearless and fiery inside of him. The boy was a true hunter.

"Dean, stop hogging them all!" Sam's loud protest interrupted John's reverie.

"Who's gonna make me?" Dean snapped back.

John sighed, folding the old black and white photo of Mary and carefully slipped it back inside his wallet, looking up to see Dean shoving yet another marshmallow onto his already loaded-up stick.

"Dad," Sam whined. "Dean's hogging all the marshmallows."

"Only a dork cooks them one at a time," Dean smirked, finding just the right spot and twirling his shish-kabobed puffs slowly.

"Work it out," John ordered, glaring at them.

"I'm not talking to him," Sam informed his father defiantly.

"Tell your brother, not me," John said blandly, going back to his coffee.

Sam shifted sideways to face Dean. "I'm not talking to you, Dean."

Dean shrugged. "Whatever, man."

That's our boys.

John smiled hearing Mary's voice in his head when they'd found out their second child was also a boy.

Their lives might be screwed six ways to doomsday, but at least there was one thing in their lives that was normal – sibling rivalry. Sam and Dean competed, argued, joked, and sometimes punched each other testing their way through their brotherhood.

John knew they'd become more than brothers as they fought their way through the river of sewage this evil world kept hidden from normal folk.

His boys had gotten awful quiet causing John to raise his eyes from his cup.

Sam finished browning his single marshmallow and popped it into his mouth, reaching for the Jet-Puff marshmallow bag between them, taking out another one.

Dean deftly snatched the bag up loading up a second stick.

"Stop being a jerk," Sam's head snapped up, eyes flashing angrily at Dean.

"Who's going to make me, dork?" Dean retorted, laughing and hogging the bag once more.

John made an animal-like growl deep in his throat.

Dean stilled immediately, attention snapping up to his father.

'You're looking at him,' John starred without blinking.

"He's not supposed to be talking to me," Dean protested, boot scuffing the dirt in obviously annoyance.

John squinted eagle-eyed.

"Fine," Dean sighed, "Here, little bitc–"

John growled deep in his throat again.

"Little Princess," Dean swiftly substituted, placing the plastic bag back down between them.

Like lightning released from a jar, Sam grabbed a marshmallow and jabbed it onto the end of his stick.

"Pssst," John quietly called.

Sam hunched over, head down, oblivious.

"Pssst" John's voice grew louder.

Sam didn't move, staring into the dancing flames, marshmallow going from brown to black.

Dean shoulder bumped Sam roughly.

Sam sat straight and stiff tossing his stick –marshmallow and all into the fire and turning a full wattage bitch-face on Dean.

Dean smiled arrogantly, nodding his head toward John.

Sam darted a look toward their father, bitchy face ironing out smooth and puppyish in less than a second. "Yes, sir?" he softly asked.

"Neat trick there, Samantha," Dean snarked under his breath.

Sam blanched, but kept his composure.

"Come here, son." John set his coffee mug in the dirt at his feet.

Sam hesitated.

Dean gave Sam's shoe a hard shove with his boot.

Sam hissed in protest, but stood, coming dutifully around the fire to stand directly in front of his father.

John leaned forward and rested a firm hand on Sam's shoulders fixing him with a crack-the-whip look.

Sam shuffled nervously from foot to foot, but remained stiff and stoic, eyes never leaving his fathers.

"I'm very pleased with your progress, son," John finally said.

Sam's military stance wavered, shoulders dropped, eyes blinking the sudden wetness away.

"You've proven you can handle yourself." John glanced briefly past Sam over at Dean. "From now on you will be joining your brother and me on every hunt."

"Dad," Dean gasped.

A cool breeze picked up causing Sam to shiver.

"Will start slowly," John smiled at Dean, turning his attention back to Sam, giving the boy's shoulder a strong, reassuring squeeze. "Understand?"

"Yes, sir." Sam gave a weak, unsure smile, nodding.

John stood, towering over Sam. "I want you to have this." He pulled his knife from its sheath and handed it over to Sam.

Sam held the familiar, four-finger-holed knife in his hand. A knife his father was never without.

"I need you to understand, Sam. You. Dean. I'm tryin' to keep you safe, the only way I know how."

Sam had no words, continuing to stare at the knife.

"Go get some rest," John dismissed. "We pack up and hike out of here early tomorrow morning.

Without another word, Sam did as he was told.

John watched Sam make his way to the tent. Once the boy was zipped inside, he dug into his jacket pocket for his flask and stood, stepping up beside Dean.

Dean remained silent, gaping up at him.

John averted his gaze staring into the unknown darkness. "No choice." he raised his chin, drawing his shoulders back, chest puffed out. "You know we can't keep his nose buried in the books forever," he muttered quietly, eyes pooling with tears, but not allowing one to fall. "If only, "he barely whispered. Hand trembling, John glanced up at the twinkling stars taking a long swig off his flask. "Put the fire out and turn in," he ordered, disappearing into the shadows.

"Damn it," Dean snarled, nabbing a gallon-size jug of water and standing back as he poured it over the flames.

The fire hissed and sizzled and smoked in protest as it died down. Using his boot he spread some of the remaining large logs apart.

The surviving embers glowed red under the graying ash. Dean knew evils fire would never be quenched.

Just as he knew this day would come.

The day Sam would be forced to enter the business full-on. Dean shook his head, tormented by the thought as he headed back to the tent. He'd hopped for Sammy to be a boy just a little longer. Researching was bad enough, but hunting. Staring sadly at the zipper he barely could swallow the hot bile stinging the back of his throat. The thin canvas between them not hiding the quavering sobs of his brother.

Dean clenched his hands at his sides. This was the baby locked in his arms as he carried the infant from their burning home. The toddler he bathed and spoon fed and taught to use the john all by his lonesome. The restless, eager schoolboy who learned at an astounding rate, now a teen…his intelligence shooting out of him like a brilliant, radiant light. A light Dean could see burning in his brother's eyes every damn day. Dean unclenched a fist and ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. Sam, unlike him, deserved so much more than wielding weapons, sloshing through blood and swan diving into the world of the Supernatural. He deserved normal. He deserved a real life. Deserved to stay in one place, go to the same school for more than a semester. He deserved a home with a room of his own, home cooked food, a backyard to play ball in, a dog. He deserved more than what a big brother could give him, though Dean tried like hell to be there for Sam. Make sure all his needs were met. Provide love and encouragement, giving up his sleep and fun and own safety for Sam. He tried to remember special days like his birthday, Christmas, and every lost tooth. But motherhood was a full time career, and besides he could never hold a candle to –

"You can stop screwing around and making fun of me, Dean," Sam snuffled. "I know you're there."

Dean wiped away a tear of his own he hadn't realized fell, sucked in a deep breath and gruffly unzipped the tent crawling inside.

Sam sat cross-legged on top his sleeping bag, it was too dark to see his face, but he could see he held dad's gifted knife in his hand.

Dean flicked on the Coleman battery lantern and opened their mini cooler, digging through the melted ice until he found the last can of root beer. "What's the matter with you?" he asked, already knowing the answer as he plopped down on his own bag just inches from Sam.

Sam shrugged, keeping his head down and stifling a sob.

Dean cracked the can open with a bubbly hiss and took a long sip. "Here." He offered the can to Sam.

Sam shook his head in refusal; his long bangs brushing back and forth over his eyes hiding tears Dean knew were still falling.

Dean took another sip and sighed. "I know you're afraid, Sammy."

Sam shook his head no, peering up through his bangs at Dean.

"Dude, you were friggin' awesome." Dean paused to take another swig of root beer. "Power- Rangered that bitches ass." He smiled. "Of course you're still just a sissy pink ranger, be some time before you get to the awesome red ranger level I'm at." Dean waggled his brows, lamely trying to comfort his brother.

"This isn't a cartoon, Dean." Sam frowned. "We're not faster than speeding bullets or more powerful than locomotive or stupid...some stupid billionaire in a bat suit."

Dean drew back eyes wide. "Don't talk like that about Batman, dude." He eyed the knife Sam twirled in his hand. "Cool of dad to give you that."

"Yeah, real cool" Sam groaned and shivered as if he was sitting on a block of ice. "You like it so much. Here," he lightly tossed the knife onto Dean's sleeping bag. "Take it. Don't want it, Dean." Sam hunched in on himself. "Any of it."

"Sam, dad gave you this because he's proud of you." Dean set his root beer aside and picked the knife up holding it back out to Sam.

"Dad, hates me."

"No, he does not."

"Okay, I hate him." Sam shot back.

"Sam," Dean warned. "Attitude adjustment."

"Noogie away," Sam drawled uncaringly.

"I have a better idea," Dean said, reaching under his pillow and pulling out a deck of colored cards. "We play for the knife. Fair and square." He shuffled the deck.

"Uno? Really, Dean?"

"Like I said, dude, fair and square. You're a lousy poker player, Sam, and you know it." Dean dealt out the cards and laid the deck between them, turning over a blue seven off the top deck, he laid it down forming the discard pile. "Let's play."

Sam huffed, picking a card and immediately slapped it down on top the blue seven.

"Son of a bitch." Dean yelped, gaping at Sam. "You think you know a guy, until he hits you with a draw four right off the bat."

Sam smirked. "Sure you rather not play poker, Dean?"

"Shut up, Sam."

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End quote:

Sam Winchester: The Song Remains The Same (5-13)

I used to be mad at him. I—I mean, I used to... I used to hate the guy. But now I—I... I get it. He was...just doing the best he could.

And he was trying to keep it together in—in—in this impossible situation. See... My mom, um... She was amazing, beautiful, and she was the love of his life. And she got killed. And...I think he would have gone crazy if he didn't do something. Truth is, um, my dad died before I got to tell him that I understand why he did what he did. And I forgive him for what it did to us. I do. And I just—I love him.