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Sam was 14 the first time Dean hit him—really hit him. They weren’t play-fighting or sparring; it wasn’t an accident. There was no laughter dancing in Dean’s green eyes, no grin playing on his freckled face; he didn’t desperately gather Sam up in a hug and apologize straight after, try to make him laugh, sorry, Sammy, I didn’t mean to, don’t tell Dad, I’ll give you whatever you want. No, Dean was straight up pissed at Sam, and he wanted to hit him, so he did.
The punch came down on the side of Sam’s face like it had bills to pay—that is to say, it fucking hurt! The blow was hard enough for Sam to recoil, stumble backwards with his head turned to the side.
They were both speechless after that. Sam’s eyes welled up with tears, humiliatingly, and not because of the physical pain. He cradled his cheek and didn’t turn back to face Dean.
Sam hadn’t even flinched, or tried to shield himself with his hands, because he never saw it coming. Because Dean had never, ever, given Sam a reason to expect it.
He felt betrayed and—confused, like something had been taken away from him, something safe and sacred. Maybe he shouldn’t have egged Dean on, but this was too far, right? Dean wasn’t allowed to hit Sam. Sam was Dean’s responsibility, his kid. This wasn’t allowed.
“Shit.” Dean sounded in disbelief of himself, the sight of Sam’s reaction sobering him up. “Sammy, I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t. . .” He trailed off, started reaching for Sam because he never was good with words, but Sam just stumbled back a little, shaking his head. Guess there’s a first for everything. “Sam. . .”
No, no. You don’t get to guilt trip me because you feel bad now.
Sam didn’t look at Dean as he rushed into the motel’s bathroom, slammed the door, locked it, let his tears fall. He slid down against the door, pulled his knees up to his chest, tried to rationalize why this happened. Dad had been gone on a hunt the past few days; Dean hadn’t been allowed to come. He’d instead been forced to look after Sam, who, admittedly, was being a bit of a bitch. But he thought he could get away with it. Maybe there’d be some yelling, but never this.
Sam guessed it’d been about 15 minutes before he got himself to stop crying. He stood up and inspected the newly forming bruise on the apple of his cheek in the mirror. The ugly welt looked incongruous with his soft skin, like a child getting abused. It just wasn’t right. It wasn’t supposed to happen.
Sam guessed another 5 minutes before there was a soft knock on the door. “Sammy? Please can we talk?”
“Leave me alone.” His voice wavered a little. This is so fucked up.
It’s not like he was scared of Dean now. But. Well. Some trust was broken.
A quiet sigh and soft footsteps padding away from the door, and Sam felt some type of relief.
Sam washed his face, tried to pull himself together. His face looked stupid because he’d been crying. Or maybe it looked stupid from the punch. The punch.
Sam had been punched before, sure, but not like this. Never like this. He felt violated, weak.
Trying to pull ourselves together here, remember? Deep breaths, you got this.
Sam guessed another 20 minutes before he decided he was just stalling and convinced himself he was brave enough to leave the bathroom. Dean was sat on one of the beds, looking guilty, and he looked up as soon as Sam opened the door. He looked guiltier upon seeing the bruise he’d left.
He stood up. “Sam, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have hit you.”
Sam just stood there and stared.
“Does it—does it hurt?” Dean continued.
Sam gave him a look that said, obviously, you jerk.
“Right.” Dean ran a hand down his face. “God, I’m so sorry, Sam.”
“Why’d you hit me, Dean?” He intended the words to be venom, but they just made him sound young.
“I don’t know,” Dean answered honestly. “I guess—I was mad? That’s not an excuse; I shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry.”
Sam crossed his arms over his stomach as he thought about how to respond. “You’ve never done it before.”
“I know.” Dean ran his fingers through his hair. He was contrite; Sam could tell from his fidgeting. Good. “I guess ‘cause it’s not right to hit a kid, you know?”
“I’m still a kid,” Sam squawked, indignant.
“You’re right. I—Jesus, Sam, I’m just sorry. I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry.”
Sam sighed, let his arms fall to his side. Six sorries seemed good enough, and he could tell they were genuine. “I forgive you. . . I guess. . . As long as you swear never to do it again!”
Relief. “I swear.”
“You have to pinky swear.”
Amusement. Dean made his way over to Sam, who’d already stuck out his pinky, and linked them together. He let go after a second.
“Can I?” Sam nodded, and Dean had a gentle hand on his face, inspecting his bruise while Sam winced. “Damn, I messed you up bad, huh? You want ice or something?”
“Don’t give yourself too much credit.” Dean rolled his eyes at that. “But seriously, I’m good.”
“You sure?” At Sam’s confirmation, Dean wiggled his eyebrows. “Can I at least kiss it better?”
Sam’s first smile of the evening. He could tell it was all dimpled and adorable by the expression on Dean’s face. “Shut up.”
“Fine. A hug then?” Sheepish and all big-brother-like, Dean opened his arms, and Sam walked straight in like he owned the place. (He kind of did.)
More relief from Dean. He rested his chin on Sam’s head as they both relaxed into the embrace.
Dean had this weird quality to him where he made everything feel better, as if it had never been wrong in the first place. All of a sudden, Sam felt safe again. He didn’t really know what to do with that.
“Dean, can we get ice cream from the gas station? And eat it for dinner?”
“Hm? Sure, kiddo.”
That was easy. “Can. . . you buy me a puppy also?”
“Sam.”
“I said I forgave you, but you still hafta make it up to me.”
Dean pulled back from the hug, but kept his hands on Sam’s shoulders. “Is that so?”
Sam nodded solemnly.
“Ice cream for dinner isn’t enough?”
Sam shook his head. “‘Twas a very serious offense.”
Dean hummed. “I guess ‘twas, ‘twasn’t it?” Dean slid his hands down so he was holding Sam by the biceps. “The kiss is still on the table, if you’d prefer that over the puppy.”
Sam sighed in dramatic exasperation, but he was smiling. “If you insist.” He turned his head slightly, offering up his cheek.
Dean held him by the chin with one hand and delivered a kiss that had no right being as gentle as it was for how much they were joking around. Sam was expecting something wet and sloppy and unserious, not something that actually made him feel better. There was Dean’s quality again. It was sort of embarrassing for Sam, really.
He only met Dean’s fond eyes for a moment before sliding his arms back around Dean’s waist and leaning his head on his chest; and there was Dean’s hands on his back and in his hair, and if there was any doubt in Sam’s mind about forgiving Dean, it had vanished.