A/N: Takes place sometime shortly after Bedtime Stories.

3. Mad

Sam is edgy. Sam is irritable. Sam is downright pissy.

Dean never thought that his last few months before hell would be spent putting up with little brother's miserable sulking.

At least it had been sulking, until yesterday. Whatever happened to Sam with that crossroads demon had really jacked him up. Instead of the usual pouting, he was practically vibrating with anger and frustration. Yesterday morning, he'd thrown his shoe across the motel room—breaking a lamp in the process—when he couldn't undo a knot in the lace. Last night, he'd thrown a punch at another hunter when they'd shown up at the same gig and the guy had made the mistake of asking whether they had notes from their parents to be out of school.

Dean drew the line when Sam slammed the passenger-side door after losing an argument about where they'd eat lunch. "Hey!" Dean had warned, but Sam had stalked off into the restaurant without a glance back.

Dean figures it's only a matter of time before Sam self destructs—takes matters into his own hands and does something stupid.

Dean abruptly pulls off onto a rough, un-kept road.

Sam splays a hand on the dash as the car dips and sways. "Where the hell are we going?"

Pissy. Always so pissy. Dean knows his shit-eating smile isn't helping any, but hey, what are brother's for?

"Dean?!"

"Don't get your panties in a knot," Dean growls, then slams the car into park when they reach the clearing.

He reaches back and grabs two baseball bats from the backseat of the Impala, gets out of the car, and starts walking. With a huff, Sam follows him to the edge of the woods.

Dean stops in front of the trees he had selected for this mission earlier in the morning when Sam was holed up in the library.

"What the fuck is this?"

Pissy. Pissy. Pissy.

Dean smirks, tosses a bat in Sam's direction which his brother catches effortlessly without breaking eye contact.

Dean arranges his grip on his bat before answering, "Anger management."

Sam eyes the selected trees with a mixture of irritation and amusement. "Bubble wrap?"

"More satisfying," Dean explains. Not to mention not so jarring, but he leaves that part out.

To demonstrate, he swings his baseball bat, and when contact is made, it's rapid-fire of air pockets exploding.

He grins widely. Yeah, he's proud of himself.

But Sam has to be a fucking killjoy. "You want me to beat the shit out of some trees?"

Dean swings around, faces his brother with his chest pushed out. "Yes. You got a problem with that?"

The antagonistic approach takes all of two seconds to work, and Sam lays his bat into the trunk of the bubble-wrapped tree with such force that hundreds of red leaves at the top of the tall maple drift to the ground.

Dean laughs, really laughs, as he watches Sam go again and again and again, until the explosive popping ceases. Sam doesn't let that stop him, though. Without missing a beat, he takes a step to his left and starts to go at Dean's tree with just as much force.

Dean steps back, now just smiling and shaking his head, letting Sam do his thing. The wailing continues long after all of the bubble wrap has met its demise; the popping turns into the dull thwack of wood on wood. Dean's about to say something but Sam is still a little too wild for intervention—and Dean prefers to live out his remaining few months without brain damage. When the bat eventually gives, splitting in half, Sam steps back and whips it into the forest with all his weight, spinning a full circle with inertia before coming to a stop, chest heaving, panting loudly.

His eyes are wide—wild. Dean thinks for a second that he can see Sam's heart beating through his pupils.

After half a minute or so, Sam takes a deep breath, pushes his hair back off his face and appears to snap out of his trance and take in his surroundings.

Dean rolls his bat in his palm, leaves crunching beneath his feet as he walks up to examine the beaten trees. He rips what's left of the bubble wrap from the trunks, says, "Huh," taken aback by the large, bat-shaped gashes in the hard wood.

He balls up the evidence, and walks back towards the car, poking Sam in the shoulder with his bat as he passes. "You better stretch that out or you're going to be hurting tomorrow."

Sam follows behind, swinging his arm like a windmill.

They get back into the car and onto the main road without another word. Dean rolls down his window, lets his hand hang out in the cold air. He feels good. Really good. He wishes he could convince his brother to feel the same way, but knows it's a lost cause. He understands...to a point.

When Dean's hand is numb from the wind and the sun starts to dip below the horizon, he decides that it's probably about time he teases Sam about being pouty again. It should really be done every few hours for consistency purposes. "You gonna sulk all night or do you want join me at a bar?"

Sam moves his jaw, and wait...is that a smile? "Yeah," Sam says quietly. "Why not."

Dean cranks up the music, notices that Sam sinks a little further into his seat, head bobbing with the beat.

Who needs yuppie therapy when you have a baseball bat and some bubble wrap?

***

Two left: Hurt(S4)/Sick(S5). Sounds like an angst fest. I think I need to burst out of this bubble and indulge in something humorous.