The Happiest Pace on Earth
~3700, Destiel Running AU.
Why the Hell did Dean agree to run a half-marathon? Sam and Jess took off without him, he’s sweating, his legs hurt, and some scruffy-haired jerk in an angel wing t-shirt keeps passing him shouting “on your left.”
If you ask Dean, he’ll say he loves his brother; Hell, he would die for his brother. Sammy is his best friend and he would do anything in the world for him (and by extension, his fiancee Jessica).
But at this moment, he really, really hates Sam.
Why the fuck did he ever agree to sign up for a damn half-marathon? In April? In Florida?
“It’ll be fun, Dean,” Dean mimics Sam in a high-pitched tone, breathing heavily as he tries to maneuver around a group of Stormtroopers taking up the entire road “It’s a Star Wars race, Jess and I are doing it. We can all run together.” Dean had been really excited about it when Sam mentioned it. Star Wars? Running? Sure, he could handle that. Had Dean known that both Jess and Sam would take off like bats out of hell the moment the starting gun went off, leaving him in the dust, he would have never agreed to this.
And now here he is, running alone, dressed in a Chewbacca shirt, while Han and Leia are miles ahead of him. Dean grumbles at the memory of the argument he had with Sam about wearing the shirt; if anyone should’ve been Han, it was him.
A feeling of dread fills Dean as he passes the Mile 1 flag, knowing that he has over twelve miles left to go. Twelve miles? He hasn’t run anything longer than a 10K in six months. He’s been training, sure, but it’s all been easy treadmill jogs in his comfy, air conditioned gym, not the muggy, Orlando heat.
Dean swipes at his forehead with his shirt sleeve, praying they come upon a water stop soon. He adjusts his single earbud, turning up his music in hopes that it may distract him from his misery.
“On your left,” A voice calls out behind him.
“What the-” Dean turns back to look just as a body breezes by him and jogs ahead. He doesn’t get a good look at the guy, outside of the a head of messy, dark hair and the back of his t-shirt, imprinted with a pair of tribal-designed angel wings. Dean watches the smug bastard disappear through the crowd. He scowls to himself and begins picking up his own pace.
There is no way that asshole is beating him.