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“Why can Sammy have long hair but I can’t have short hair? You always say short hair’s better anyway! That it’s harder to grab.” He knows his luck is pressed, arguing with John the way he is, but he’s 14 years old. It’s his hair, not the goddamn family hair.
“Because I’m your father and I damn well said so.” His tone so clearly indicates the end of the conversation, and Dean knows it’s no use to continue unless he has a death wish.
Sam nudges his shoulder and whispers, quiet enough so John can’t hear, “I think you look like a boy, even with long hair.” Dean just smiles and pushes his brother lightly. What did I do to deserve you, Sammy?
Dean sits on his bed in their motel room, scrawling music notes and lines of half-poetry-half-venting in his journal—his journal that he hides in the most unconventional places to keep his father from finding it.
‘I feel like my brain and body are out of sync. Like they’re pieces parts of separate machines and they just don’t work together. It’s stupid, writing this. It’s not gonna change anything.’
“Dean! I have something to show you!” He slams his journal shut and tucks it away, following Sammy’s voice into the bathroom. He’s holding– where the hell’d he find scissors that big? “I stole them from one of my teachers when she wasn’t looking, they’re called fabric scissors. Figured if they can cut fabric, they can cut your hair, too.”
“Do you even know how to do it? Y’know, since yours is”—he’s interrupted by Sam punching his arm—“I’m kidding, jeez!”
“You do it, then. I’ll tell you if it looks like crap.” Smug little asshole. Dean takes the scissors from Sam and wipes as much grime off the mirror as he can.
By the time it’s done, the tile is covered in long, golden-brown strands. He looks at his brother first, gauging how bad it looks from Sam’s face. It must be okay, at least, since he’s not met with giggling and teasing. Next is the mirror, and he’s praying to whoever will listen that his dad doesn’t kill him when he finds out.
It’s… wow. It doesn’t look professional by any means, but it’s short and it’s him. He could cry, if he weren’t in a shitty motel bathroom with his kid brother.
“I think it suits you,” Sam says with certainty and finality. “You look way cooler than before.” Dean rubs his knuckles over Sam’s head, only stopping when his arm gets pushed.
“Thanks, Sammy. You’re helping me clean this up, by the way. I’ll tell Dad it got caught in the door hinges and I had to cut it, and you can say you were watching TV and had to come help me, okay?” He’s met with a nod and lets out a sigh. “Good. It’ll be fine.”
It isn’t fine. John comes home late, visibly pissed from something else entirely. Dean doesn’t greet him, doesn’t draw attention to himself at all, hoping it can blow over until the morning.
What wishful thinking that was. He sees it when he turns the lights on.
“What did I tell you, Millie? I said no, was that not good enough for you? You trying to piss me off, or are you just stupid?”
“It got stuck in the door, sir. Had to cut it or else I’d end up pulling it from my scalp.” Dean doesn’t let himself falter or show any fear, still making sure he’s not making himself a threat to John.
“Stuck in a door, right.” He’s pissed. He’s pissed. He’s pissed. “I don’t want my kids looking like fucking queers . Do you know how embarrassing that is for me? What’s next, you go around kissing girls, say you’re a lesbian?”
“No, sir. I wouldn’t– embarrass you, like that. When it grows out again, I’ll leave it. I promise. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t cut it. Try anything else and you’re out. Are we clear?”
“Crystal, sir.” With that, John storms out, despite having just gotten back, and slams the door behind him. Dean is so thankful that Sam’s here, otherwise that would’ve gone worse.
“I still think it suits you,” Sam says. “And I like having a brother more, anyway. I think I just like having you, for you.” Dean joins him on his own bed, pulling him into a side-hug.
“You’re a sappy sonofabitch, you know that?” He retorts, no heat behind it.
“Takes one to know one.”