A/N: This scene takes place some time after 2x3, Bloodlust. It contains some direct quotes from that episode. I own nothing.
"I can't do this."
Dean grunted, barely looking up from the book in his hands.
"Dean?"
Dean put down the book to find Sam pacing in the little motel room. Sam had gotten up at least six times in the last hour, which was uncommon for Sam. He was usually much better at the research part of hunting than Dean was.
It was on the tip of Dean's tongue to ask what was wrong, but asking would be futile. The answer was obvious. This case had been exceptionally frustrating, and the weight of their dad's death was still casting a dark shadow over them that made even the simplest cases exasperating.
Grief affected them each differently. Dean tended to close himself off and bury himself more deeply in his work. Sam was more complicated, but he was also usually more willing to accept help.
Dean leaned back in his chair. "What do you need, Sammy?"
"I don't know." Sam continued to pace, shaking out his hands.
"Come on, whatever you need. Take a break? Want to get out for a little while? I'll let you drive."
Sam put his hands on the back of his head, wincing.
Dean knew that look. Sam wasn't just stir crazy. He needed a physical outlet. "Why don't you go for a walk? Or a run?"
"I . . . I need that rain check."
"You need what?"
"I, uh . . ." Sam swallowed. "The other day. I said I'd take a rain check."
The conversation flooded back into Dean's memory: "Let's go, you get a freebie. Hit me, come on." "You look like you just went twelve rounds with a block of cement, Dean. I'll take a rain check."
Dean hadn't really expected Sam to hit him, even when he'd asked him to. He certainly hadn't expected Sam to remember it or decide to take him up on the offer. That didn't mean he was unwilling to follow through, especially now that his injuries from the last case had healed.
"Oh. Uh. Okay." Dean closed the book. "Really?"
"If—if that's okay."
"Uh, yeah." He stood from the table. "Where—" His voice cracked, and he deepened it. "Where do you want me?"
"Just . . . over here."
Dean forced himself to walk with confidence to the center of the room, where there was a bit of open space.
Sam stood by the foot of his bed, fists clenched.
Dean knew what it was like to need to hit something—or someone. Sam wasn't a violent person in the same way Dean was, but there had been something between them ever since Dean punched him. Dean had taken out his grief on the one person who already felt that grief as deeply as he did, and that had created a rift.
Sam didn't need Dean to grovel or apologize. He didn't need to be coddled or hugged, either. Today, Dean's job was much easier. Sam just needed an outlet, both for the anger and grief, and Dean happened to owe him.
Dean set his feet so that the blow wouldn't knock him over. It had been easier to keep his eyes open when he wasn't expecting to be hit. He let his eyes fall closed, instead putting his effort into keeping his facial muscles relaxed while he waited for the impact.
It didn't come. Dean opened one eye.
Sam was still standing there, his fists in a fight stance.
"We doing this?"
"Yeah, sorry. Just . . ."
"Okay." Dean closed his eyes again, bracing himself.
Pain exploded just below his left eye. Dean whirled around with the force of the blow. He gasped, but he didn't let himself bring a hand to his face to try to take the edge off. This was what Sam had felt when Dean had lost control and hit him, and Dean owed it to Sam to feel the same.
Sam breathed hard, but the lessened tension in his shoulders was obvious.
Dean cleared his throat. "You good?"
Sam shook out his hand, nodding and returning to the table. "I think so." He plunked down in the chair and picked up a book.
Despite the throbbing in his face and soreness in his neck from the whiplash, Dean had to smile. The pain was a small price to pay to take care of Sam.
Because more than saving people, more than hunting things, that was his real job. Taking care of his little brother, in whatever way he needed. No chick flick moments required.