Who: Sam Winchester & Daryl Dixon What: sparring, then talking. When: Wednesday night (slightly backdated) Where: the gym Warnings: mentions of fighting/injury, otherwise TBD
Sam was not in a good place. He knew it, and he knew that he ought to do something about it. Of all the times for his family to start disappearing, it had to be right in the middle of things going to absolute shit in this world -- the bombings and killing was awful, and had him on edge, but he'd been handling it up until today. He'd even thought that he'd been handling their disappearance with as much grace as possible: yeah, he'd gotten shitfaced the night before, but he'd been sober all day and didn't intend to have more than one drink before the day was over. It seemed especially manageable now that he'd gotten into a good, vicious, adrenaline-driven fight with the hunter vampire, and he'd intended to spend the rest of the evening on the couch watching tv. But then the Mandarin had shot a man in the head on his television screen, and his awful mood came back.
It wasn't something that liquor was going to solve. It wasn't something that anything was going to solve, except time and energy, but fighting had sure as hell felt good. He was bruised and banged around and a little bloody already, but he didn't give a shit; the renewed adrenaline rush was already getting rid of the pain, and it wasn't as if he hadn't fought with worse. He wasn't so badly off that he wanted to throw himself back into the job, but he really, really wanted the satisfaction of a good fight.
So he'd put out the offer, and was glad when Dixon had taken him up on it. He didn't actually know what the man's hand-to-hand combat skills were like, but he was more than ready to find out. If nothing else, he imagined that a guy who'd survived a zombie apocalypse would have a lot of stamina, and a good long fight sounded perfect to him.
It turned out that he was right. What the man lacked in trained technique he made up for with determination and instinct, and by the end of it Sam had a healthy amount of respect for Dixon along with a good number of (much less healthy) bruises and scrapes. He wasn't yet ready to stop entirely, but Meg would be down here at some point and he didn't want to miss out on the satisfaction of kicking her ass. So after a while when they reached a point in the fight when they were a few steps apart, just for a moment, he held up a hand.
"Think I'm good," he said, breathing hard, though he was far from winded. Although he hadn't been hunting here, he hadn't just been sitting around on his ass either; he'd wanted to be ready for anything that came at him. "You?"