Three hours.

Their usual morning routine, more or less, was fifteen minutes of running, a half an hour of various drills, and fifteen minutes of strength training. Lengthening the strength training was a pretty typical punishment in the Winchester playbook. Dean was used to it—his dad calling out extra pushups and tricep dips and lunges until the deep burn set into his muscles, and he ached for days.

But three hours.

After the first hour, Sam's sweat dripped to the floor of the cabin where they were staying. His face glowed red, and he breathed harder than Dean had seen in awhile. His dad stood over him while he pumped out push ups.

"Dad," Dean said, from the couch where he was resting from his own workout.

"Fifty more," his dad told Sam, and Sam cried out in frustration.

"Dad, he's had enough," Dean said.

His father whirled on him. "You're not his father."

"No, but—"

"You want to join him?"

Dean almost took his father up on that. It would hurt like hell, but at least Sam wouldn't have to go through it alone. But if Dean was hurting, too, he wouldn't be able to help Sam when he finished. So Dean chanced a final glare at his father and left for the little bedroom he and Sam were sharing, shutting the door behind him.

It was harsh discipline, but God knew Sam needed it. He'd taken off for an entire day to go to some party at another teenager's house. He'd been missing for a full twenty-four hours. Anything could have happened to him. After this, Sam would think twice before running off to go to a strange kid's house without telling anyone where he was going.

Sam started shouting in pain sometime during the second hour. During the third, he was eerily quiet.

Dean dug his fingernails into his palm to keep himself from tearing up in sympathy. Sam needed this. It would keep him safe. Besides, Dad wouldn't hurt Sam, not really. Dad knew their limits; he knew how to cycle through muscle groups; he knew how to lighten the intensity to avoid injury but keep up the burn. Sam would be sore—really sore—but he would be fine in a few days. It was a punishment, not torture.

But three hours.

Dean buried his head in his pillow, first to drown out the yells, then to drown out the silence.

It didn't quite drown out the bedroom door opening, though, or Sam plunking down on his bed.

Dean sat straight up. Sam lay on his stomach, face buried in his pillow, sprawled out, t-shirt and basketball shorts soaked with sweat.

He'd be fine. Dean just had to get him to laugh at his situation, and things would be back to normal. "Hey there, muscles." He poked Sam in the arm.

Sam flinched and pulled his arm away, burying his face deeper into his pillow.

"Ah, c'mon, don't be like that."

It was quiet for a moment. Then Sam's shoulders shook, and his pillow wasn't quite enough to muffle his sobs.

A weight the size of the cabin settled onto Dean's chest. He winced and sat down beside Sam on the bed. "Hey. I'm sorry." Dean grimaced and put a gentler hand on the back of Sam's arm. "Uh. Was it that bad?"

Sam just kept crying.

Stupid question. "Okay. It's okay. It's over, Sammy."

"It's Sam." The effect was a bit lost when his voice cracked.

"Okay. Sam." Dean gently pulled his little brother—who was taller than he was, now—to sit beside him, and he wrapped both arms around him, squeezing tight. "It's okay."

For a moment, Sam relaxed into his grip, face burrowing into the hollow between Dean's neck and shoulder, tears soaking into his shirt. But he pulled away before long, and lay back on his stomach.

Dean swallowed hard and began to knead the muscles in his brother's shoulder.

"Ow. Dean, stop."

"It'll help," Dean said, though he lightened up the pressure.

"No, it hurts."

"I know, but you'll thank me tomorrow." He dug his fingers in a little deeper, ignoring Sam's protests. "You got the message, right?"

Sam sniffled, but he didn't say anything.

Dean switched to the other shoulder, drawing a hiss. "No more parties?"

Still nothing.

It wasn't like Sam to be silent like this after a punishment. If anything, he was the type to whine and complain about how unfair Dad was being. Then again, none of this made any sense—Sam really wasn't the type to run away to go to a party in the first place. He'd rather be holed up in a library, studying with his friends . . .

It dawned on Dean all at once. "You didn't go to a party, did you?"

Sam turned his head to look at Dean. "Yes I did."

"Nah, that's not you."

Sam rolled his eyes and buried his face back in his pillow.

Dean let go of his brother's arm. "Sam . . . where were you?"

Sam sighed and pushed himself to sit up, groaning all the way. "Promise not to tell Dad."

"I think you've been punished enough."

Sam nodded, then spoke so softly that Dean almost didn't hear him: "I went to take an SAT."

Dean raised an eyebrow. He should have been expecting it to be something like that. "Like, for college?"

"Yeah."

Dean let his breath out. Sam had been right to say he'd been at a party. "Sammy, we talked about this."

"No, Dad talked."

"We need you here."

"No, you don't. I'm a lousy hunter. If anything, I'm a liability."

"Don't talk like that."

"Dean, I'm not gonna keep doing this after I finish high school."

"What d'you think you're gonna do?"

"I was thinking about law school."

"Law school?"

"Yeah."

"You're gonna leave your family?"

Sam looked away and shook his head. "That's what most kids do when they turn eighteen."

"We're not most kids, Sam, you know that."

"Yeah, well, I'd give anything to be."

It was quiet for a long time.

Dean understood where Sam was coming from. He really did. There were times when Dean himself wondered how long he could keep this up. But he'd seen the way his dad kept at it, and he'd met other lifelong hunters. There was no getting out of this life, not really. How could he go through his life ignoring the news stories of mysterious deaths, knowing he could have saved lives? How could he leave his father on his own to seek revenge on the thing that had killed Mom? How could he let his little brother go off alone while that thing was still out there?

But how could he force Sam to stay, if he wanted to go?

Sam slowly pushed himself up to stand. "I'm gonna hit the shower."

"Okay." Dean stared at his hands as Sam limped away, but then he looked up as Sam reached the door. "Wait."

Sam turned back.

"Any more . . . parties, coming up?"

Sam sighed. "I'd look better for colleges if I could make it to my AP history test, but I . . . I don't know if I can go through this again."

The last thing Dean wanted was for Sam to run away. But he wasn't going to let him get punished again just for being a nerd. "I'll cover for you."

"You don't have to do that."

"I know. But I will."

"He'll punish you if he finds out you lied."

"Yeah, well, you're a little wimp and you can't handle it." And I'm never letting him do this to you again.

Sam gave a weak smile. "Thanks, Dean," he said, and he left the room.