The Zen of Running by Dean Winchester

Don't own 'em, just love 'em. Wish t hell I worked for Kripke

This is just a little drabble I wrote for myself about the different approaches the Winchesters have toward exercise.


At the next stop, after all the stuff had been brought in to the motel room from the car Dean wordlessly got into his sweats, sneaks and loose T shirt to go out for his run.

Dean had always run, while Sam had been content to stay in the room and do his calisthenics, which he did routinely... without even a day between... every morning. "OCD health nut-" Dean huffed to himself as he did the minimal stretches out side their room.

Dean preferred to run.

He needed to feel some space around him, the sun on his face, he needed to feel his body get that loose limbed sensation as his muscles fell in line with the pace of his stride.

And he needed the distance.

Sometimes running, when a hunt went bad or "Sam was being a bitch about something", was the only thing that Dean had to work out the kinks. He needed to find himself in that zone when all thoughts were crowded out and nothing filled his brain but focus, focus on the pace, focus on the road, focus on his senses. He would cruise along at a medium lope, putting some miles between that knot in his shoulders from the long dive or what ever drama de-jour played out between him and his brother during said long drive.

And as the yards then miles ticked by he would find peace or at least the absence of turmoil. He needed that to balance himself out, "Or I'd be a friggin nut job." he mused.

The distance he went was in direct correlation to the tension that he had to dispel, troubles between him and Sam always required a longer run. Because Sam was his constant, ever present on his mind and if Sammy wasn't happy...well, the majority part of Dean's life wasn't going to be happy either.

So he'd keep on running until he felt that point of no return start to loom ahead, he knew he'd never cross that line but sometimes he just had to run far enough to see it.

He'd just get that close, close enough to feel the slate of troubles on his mind begin to be wiped clean and then he'd turn around. Not because he'd be tired if he didn't but because he'd always return, no matter what, he'd always return to his constant, he'd always return to Sam.