RAMBO TRAINING

By: Karen B.

Summary: An exploration/character study/adventure of Sam (12), Dean (16) and rough, tough, drill Sergeant John during one of his training- sessions. Story is complete. Posts in chapters.

Disclaimer: Not the owner.

Rated: Nothing to horrible.

'They drew first blood, not me.' – John Rambo First Blood: Book release: 1972 Movie release: 1982.

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As John and Sam made their way deeper and deeper into the woods, John wished he could separate himself – father from drill sergeant. But the father in him was awkward and lost in a dark and empty long-ago place.

Drill Sergeant John was the one in control now – determined and unstoppable. Revenge the hard center of his existence, splayed bare after he'd been forced to witness 'his' Mary burn alive.

That was the last night he'd seen his true self.

Those first few months were the worst as he lay in motel bed after motel bed. Drunk and confused and lost. Listening night-after-night to his four-year-old son Dean, and six month-old baby, Sammy wail; their cries echoing all around the darkened room, piercing his mind and gripping his soul and shattering his heart.

John's despair ran deep and his will to live lost, until he finally found out the truth about all the supernatural evil in the world.

After that, the all-encompassing need for sweet revenge took hold. He'd kill the thing that killed Mary, and keep his boys safe. And he'd do that the only way he knew how. Train his boys to be well disciplined. Physically and mentally fit and ready. Make them experts in warfare. Teach them never to quit. To engage the enemy and if need be, take up the slack should he fail.

John squinted up through the tall trees. The golden morning rays of the sun spreading down through the branches cut past the foggy mist, warming his face.

He'd train his boys to know the intensity of being a solider wasn't just a job, but a way of life.

God help him. The choice was made. There was no room for regret.

"What are we going to do now, dad?"

John shuddered and glanced down into the shining, questioning eyes of his youngest son.

"Not we, you," John spoke with quiet coolness, standing tall and firm he turned Sam around, tugging his hands behind his back. "You have to learn to be capable of handling any situation you find yourself in, Sammy," he said winding a thick rope around both the boy's crossed wrists, binding his hands tightly together.

Sam didn't struggle, though he instinctually stiffened and winced as the itchy rough threads of the rope banded around his wrists.

"You may not always be able to rely on all your senses." John pulled out a blue bandanna and slipped it over Sam's eyes blindfolding him.

Sam's breaths quickened, but he remained still.

"You'll need to build confidence. Trust in your instincts."

Sam heard the peeling rip of what he knew to be a silver roll of duct tape. Swiftly, his father bound his fingers together tightly, the digits unable to wiggle.

Large hands clamped down onto Sam's shoulders.

John spun Sam around in a circle, fast.

"Now this is no pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey game, son," John kept spinning Sam, faster and faster. "This is a hardcore lesson in becoming a hunter. And the lesson doesn't end until you make your way back to camp." John kept rotating Sam round and round. "There will be times when you will want to stop. Want to give up." John quit spinning and squeezed Sam's shoulders to steady the tottering twelve-year-old. "But you don't. You won't. You don't ever give up," he commanded. "Can't let an injury or pain or fear slow you down, stop you from doing what you need to do. You don't ever stop. You fight the fear. You pull yourself along on your belly using only your chin if you have to, and you fight to the death. Son! Do you understand?"

"Yes. Yes, sir." Sam wiggled nervously in John's grasp.

John drew in a deep breath and then let it out slowly. He wished he didn't have to do this. But all this wishing did no good. Wish in one hand. Shit in the other. It was obvious which would get filled first.

It wasn't easy being a parent under normal circumstances; training his children to be soldiers, to learn to pay attention to the noises in the shadows, instilling the knowledge that those very shadows could and would hurt them. Teaching them both that scary things really did live under their beds, and wanted to, and would eat them alive. It gave John no pleasure to terrify the crap out of his kids. But he needed them to be strong, for if someday they had to face the devil, without him by their side, they would be prepared.

John's hair stood on end. There was no being prepared for that kind of evil. He shook himself from his thoughts going back to the task at hand.

"It takes twenty-six weeks of intense boot camp training to make a solider, kid," he continued to tell Sam. "And it'll take a lifetime to become a hunter. And hunters, Sammy…they don't have lifetimes… get it?" He stared intently down at his blindfolded son.

"I get it."

"Sam!"

" I mean…y-yes, sssir," Sam said again, the words catching in his throat.

John turned Sam around one more time pointing him in a cardinal direction. "You brought your knife, right?"

Sam nodded.

"Holy water and matches," he added. Items his sons were taught never to leave home without, no matter if they were just going to the corner store for a stick of gum.

Sam nodded again.

"You can do this, son."

He hated to leave. But he had to.

"Dad?" Sam questioned timidly.

"Listen, Sammy," he whispered. "We've been over the area," John's voice remained steady and calm, though it killed him deep inside. "You know the terrain well." He gave Sam's shoulders one last squeeze. "You can do this. Meet me back at camp."

"Yes, sir," Sam uttered.

"Dean and I will have dinner waiting." With no more fuss, John turned away.

Sam stood frozen, listening to his father's heavy footsteps hurry across the hard forest floor, not attempting to be quiet in the least. The footsteps slowed their pace, paused, and then were gone. For a moment Sam thought he should follow, but he knew his father well, and John wouldn't head back toward camp right off. That'd make this test way too easy on Sam. Defeat the purpose of the training.

And just what exactly was the purpose of the training? To prepare Sam for the things in the dark that would come to get him. Things covered in scales and slime and fur, things that had razor-sharp claws, and shark-ripping, blood-stained teeth, things that should never, ever exist on this planet or any other–but did. That's what.

Sam didn't make a move, straining to see through the blindfold.

But he couldn't see anything. The band had been tied snug and so tight that no speck of light penetrated the material.

It was early spring, the snow having just melted. Sam knew the sun was out, but under the shelter of the thick pine trees that crowded in on him he couldn't feel it. The wind blew cold in his ears. Carrying with it many different sounds that made him shiver down to his toes. He wished he'd worn more than his pullover hoodie and a tee-shirt.

He cocked his head and listened. Strange noises came to him. Ones he couldn't identify: hums, echoes, thuds, crashes, jingles, splashes, thuds, crunches, all coming from everywhere and all at once.

He was disoriented, missing his sense of sight, and feeling vulnerable without the use of his hands and dizzy from all his father's spinning.

He started to tremble. Swore he could feel eyes watching him. Bears, cougars, wolves, the occasional escaped zoo animal, and then there were the real worries, Zombies, Wendigo, Ogopogo, Chupacabra, just to name a few.

Sam took in a breath, forcing rational thought back in. He needed to stay calm. Dad wouldn't leave him helpless in a forest full of monsters. This was only a test. A test Sam decided he was determined to pass. He remained still for the longest time. Compensating and cultivating and gathering his other senses.

The strange noises began to make sense. The hoot-hoot of an owl, the rustle of leaves in the pine-scented breeze, the chirp of a chipmunk, a scampering rabbit –all harmless woodland creatures.

"Okay. Okay," Sam mumbled, a voice in his head – his fathers – telling him not to panic.

First thing was first. Creatures in the woods… strike that…creatures of any kind normally could smell you before they ever saw you.

Sam dropped down to the ground, hands bound behind him, he rolled around in the dirt and pine needles covering his body head to toe, masking his scent. A trick his father taught him.

Second, he needed to choose a direction. And not the one his father had pointed him in.

He stood straight and tall, titling his head upward.

A light breeze brushed across his cheek.

Deciding it was best to stay down wind, he tentatively headed off to his right, the same direction as the hurried rabbit had gone. As Sam walked, he hoped he didn't fall into a hole and end up in Wonderland. He stepped slowly and as quietly as he could, testing the ground with each footfall, the soft sound of leaves crackling under his earth boots. He made his way carefully, it was hard to keep his balance with no sight and his hands tied behind his back, fingers duct taped for good measure.

But Sam was proud of himself. He'd been walking for what he estimated to be a good forty minutes. Successfully stepping over fallen logs without face planting and avoiding tripping over roots, only being whapped once in the face by a low hanging tree limb.

Ouch!

Every few yards he stopped to lean against a tree. Listen and gather his wits. But mostly to work the tape and rope, rubbing up and down against the bark and trying to wiggle and pull them apart. Progress was slow. He needed something with more cutting power and couldn't reach his knife strapped to his belt against his side. Sam dug his heel into the dirt and marked the land. Once he could cut through the thick rope and get the blindfold off he would need to know he wasn't traveling in circles.

He stepped away from the tree, another low hanging branch catching hold of a few strands of his long hair. There came an angry squawk and the softness of fringed wings just barely brushing past his cheek.

"Uhng," Sam gave a startled cry, zigzagging left and yanking out several strands by the roots. "Crap," he muttered, gaining control when he realized the angry squawk had come from some poor bird taking flight, and more than likely as scared as he was.

He took a second to gather his breath wishing he could push his unruly hair back, thinking maybe Dean and Dad were right and he truly did need a cut.

A few more deep breaths and another moment to reorient himself and Sam continued on. It was unnerving not being able to see. Sounds amplified tenfold. The buzzing of insects, the pecking of beaks and the scampering thump of what Sam hopped to be nothing more than rabbits. These woods were full of them. His sense of hearing was more sensitive now, and he swore one rabbit in particular seemed to be following him. Or maybe he was following it. Sam couldn't be sure.

His wrists hurt and his shoulders were sore from lack of movement. Not long ago he'd wandered right into a grove of thorny bushes, the tiny thorns scratching across his cheeks and still some of them were pinching his skin through his hoody and jeans.

Under the blindfold, he tried to blink his eyes, but the material was tied so tight he couldn't. He was about to veer right when there came that same scampering sound again. Off to his left. Sam's sixth sense kicked in further; something deep inside him telling him he should follow. Dad always said, when in doubt listen to your gut. Sam veered left following the sound.

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Hours later, Sam began to wonder if he'd made the right choice.

He'd lost track of the scampering rabbit and it was getting late. He checked himself. He was thirsty and hungry and tired and his orientation was slipping again, and he'd lost feeling in his hands. The rope was digging in deep, indenting and pinching the skin around his wrists, and the tape around his fingers itched.

He kept misplacing steps. Three times he rammed his forehead into the trunks of trees, trees that had been uselessly slow in helping him rid his hands of rope and tape.

"Stupid," Sam growled, picking up his pace even though he ached and wanted nothing more than to sit and give up.

He was really mad at his father. So mad it brought tears to his eyes dampening the bandanna. Sam no longer tried to stay quiet as he stomped through the forest. No matter how hard he tried he just couldn't understand this life. It was confusing and unfair and though he didn't remember one thing about his mother, he knew…deep down…he knew…she would never have wanted this for her sons.

Sam's foot jammed under a tree root and he lost his balance dropping down, his left kneecap impacting on a rock. He quickly scrambled back up to his feet. He didn't need to see to know he'd torn his jeans, the knee already hot and swelling as warm sticky blood dripped down his calf. Sam stood a moment sniffing, tears running fast. He was thankful at that moment for the bandanna that soaked up the salty drops.

Not that the squirrels gave a damn he was balling like a baby.

But he swore he could hear his smartass brother making up his own words to the tune of 'Big Girls Don't Cry."

Sam stumbled on, at first barely able to put weight on the leg, but walking off the pain with each step. He felt smaller than normal among the acres and acres of trees, little more than a dust mite in a world of giants.

This was ridiculous. His father was out of control. Who put their son's through this kind of training. What if he walked off a cliff? Would his father even care? Or was Sam supposed to just spread his wings and fly?

If he had to be a part of his father's obsession, he rather do it from behind a book, Dad or Dean phoning in every hour, Dean grilling him for facts, and calling him a pale-faced, geeky, clumsy nerd.

Maybe he was a nerd? All Sam was missing to complete the ensemble was a pair of horn rimmed glasses with thick, foggy lenses. He tried not to show it, but being called a nerd bothered Sam.

He had other skills, like the ones he was using right now to pass his father's stupid military test.

So what if books were his passion. Reading was like turning the knob of a door and opening it unto a whole new life. But it was more than just the words inside or the story itself. The simple opening of a book and turning of the pages made Sam feel more powerful than any bow or knife or gun ever could make him feel. And besides that, picking up a book off the library shelf and reading was something millions of people did every day. Being left behind on hunts to do research was safe and at least gave him some sense of normal, a sense of power and some kind of control over this crazy life.

He could focus on a book and be fascinated with a book and devour a book. It beat the hell out of trying to hunt and to kill the things he read about and wished weren't real.

There came that scampering again, and Sam paused to listen. This was no ordinary rabbit. It was big and sounded like it walked upright on two feet.

Slowly and quietly, Sam planted one foot in front of the other, barely disturbing the leaves and cautious not to press down and break any twigs. He was rather proud of himself, floating with the quietest of steps over the forest floor until something else captured his attention.

Sam froze instantly, all his weight on his back foot.

He cocked his head and listened intently to the burble of water. Up ahead and not far off. He could tell by the gentle rolling gurgle it was no more than a small stream. But where there was a watercourse…there were boulders and sharp stones. Cutting tools that would work much faster than backing his ass end up against tree bark to unbind his hands.

It was so unnerving, not being able to see or steady his balance with his hands, and it was hard to stay brave when he felt so helpless. Beads of sweat soaked the bandanna tied around Sam's eyes and his body slightly trembled. But he pressed on in the direction of the water, fingers wiggling in anticipation of being set free from the duct tape.

The ground changed beneath his feet, soupy and slick and slopping. Sam carefully made his way down the small incline, the trickle of water now a rush. He felt along the calloused rocks at the edge of the stream, using his feet, until he found one that seemed large enough.

He sat in the mud, leaning up against the rock. Water lapped at the soles of his shoes and squishy wetness soaked his ass.

"Gross," he murmured as he began to scratch the tape in an up and down sawing motion.

Frogs croaked and he could hear water rushing over rocks and twigs. It was a small river, but wet and cold. At least his boots were waterproof. The rock was doing the trick. He cut through the duct tape, thought it took a good ten minutes. Adjusting his position, Sam sat higher up, finding a more jagged edge and started working the rope, his numb, gluey fingers fumbling to help.

The crisp breeze was fragrant, carrying with it the scent of a mint, freshly tilled dirt, and the sweet smell of honey suckle. It made his stomach rumble louder in hunger, and his hands worked faster.

There came the faint scampering again, behind him and moving through the woods with stealth. Sam stopped working the rope and stiffened, lifting his head up higher.

The croaking frogs hit the water with a splash, and wariness invaded every one of Sam's nerve endings. Listening intently he sized-up his stalker. The wind rattled the budded tree branches and the scampering turned to an even quitter rhythmic lurking.

This was no rabbit.

He once had a nightmare where he was lost in the woods, being stalked by a blue monster with purple spots that could kill you with a simple touch of its hairy pawed hand.

Spooked, Sam started to work the rope again, this time faster. "Come on, come on," he barely whispered, teeth clicking together more out of fear than cold.

The rope broke and fell into the water.

Sam quickly pulled the blindfold off and gripped the bandanna tight in his hands. The stream drifted lazily and no purple spotted monster appeared. He looked up blurrily through the trees to the sky.

White, puffy clouds created strange animal shapes and twirled round and round like a baby's mobile. He held his breath and his heart seemed to stop – the tick-tock of time too.

Sam felt uneasy and dizzy and nauseous. For some reason he pictured the forest being set aflame and he squeezed his eyes shot dropping his chin to his chest. Staring back into darkness made him worse and there came a loud ringing in his ears. It scared him and his eyes snapped back open.

"Guh," he grunted forcefully shoving himself to wobbly feet and glancing around blurrily.

The sunlight flooding down through the towering trees was like a white-hot spotlight and made him feel exposed and out in the open. Even more vulnerable than he had when he was trussed up.

How could that be?

It took a moment for him to realize he wasn't helpless anymore. Rubbing circulation back into his hands, he blinked repeatedly, his vision gradually clearing further with each bat of his eyelashes. It had to be late afternoon.

Sam listened to the sound of happily singing birds, and the chatter of a scolding squirrel. The wind rushed down through the tops of the trees and he took a deep breath getting the briefest whiff of M&M's and Cheetos.

Sam's stomach rumbled loudly again, and his fear seemed to subside. "Dean?" he questioned the forest, but got no answer.

What the hell.

Sam suddenly found no more reason to be scared. "Dean," he said more self-confidently, anger filling him.

He wasn't stupid and he wasn't a baby. He could do this. He'd show Dad and Dean. He could stand-alone. Earn their respect. He could do more than just get lost in a book doing research, he could get lost in the woods too.

Sam scowled, shaking his head. That didn't come out right. He'd show his family he could handle himself in the real world just as well as any library.

Sam bent and picked at the threads of the hole in his jeans inspecting his knee. It was puffy and bruised, at least two layers of skin fileted off and red with blood. Dean would have had the peroxide and bandages out already doctoring him up. He knew he should at least wash the wound with river water but in defiance he tied the bandana around his forehead instead like some sort of country-bumpkin ninja.

Ignoring the pain, Sam tramped off racing away from the river. It'd probably take him close to nightfall, but he would shake that scampering rabbit of a brother and find his way back to base camp.

On his own!

TBC

AN: This story is complete. More chapters will be on the way.