Hair and Stuff
Sam gently massaged his scalp while the hot water rinsed away the remaining shampoo.
He knew it sounded strange, even to himself, but passing his fingers through his hair had always brought him a curious sense of comfort.
Dean had once joked that Sam had replaced the fur of his last soft toy with the mop of hair on his head. Maybe his big brother's theory hadn't been all that far off the mark, he mused; though how nonsensical could it be that the length of his hair should have become a bone of contention since he was a kid, and that on occasion Dean would even yet throw it into the mix!
x
In a way it had all been Dad's fault. His marine training had made little Sam's preference for his thatch of tousled hair a bitching point.
Sam, who'd been a placid enough kid until he'd found out one bleak Christmas Day that every nightmare imaginable was real, had begun to question and challenge his father's authority on everything, and somehow not giving in to Dad about his hair had given him the upper hand in one of the few battles he could ever hope to win against him.
After John had given up the fight, Sam had kept his hair long on principle, and he mused as he exited the shower and wrapped a towel around his hips, he had to admit the older he got, the longed he liked to keep it; despite or maybe because Dean had half-seriously threatened to take a pair of clippers to it more than once!
He wondered if there was some psychological message to be taken from that, but he shrugged it off. As far as psychology went, he and Dean were surely two of the most messed-up individuals on the planet.
Well on the positive side, he'd been able to tie his hair back in a warrior's pony tail when he and Dean had thrown themselves into the larping world as two of the Queen's men, he chuckled amused.
x
He turned to the old-fashioned full-length mirror that stood in one corner of the bathroom, and studied his reflection.
Huh, not bad for a thirty-year old, he decided. Apart from some scarring here and there about his chest and arms, his body was still toned and muscular.
For someone who'd died at least five or six times in a variety of inventive ways; stabbed in the back at Cold Oak; struck by lightning; pierced through the chest with a metal tube wielded by an angel; shot to death by his once colleagues Walt and Roy; ending up committing suicide by throwing himself into the Cage with Lucifer; he was in good condition!
Not to mention having taken a tour round Heaven, paid a quick visit to Purgatory and spent a hundred and eighty years in hell being tortured by the devil himself!
'Good times', as Dean would say!
x
Dean, of course had his own theory about that; he was certain that being resurrected reset one's physical body too, convinced as he was that he'd been 're-hymenated' after getting out of Hell!
Sam wasn't quite on-board with that idea, for after Cold Oak, the wound on his back had definitely remained as testimony to his death.
He passed a hand across his lower back but strangely enough he couldn't feel the scar tissue any more. Maybe it was a hit and miss thing!
x
His eyes were drawn to the tattoo on his left shoulder, just above his heart.
It had served him well so far; too bad they hadn't thought to get it done earlier; or that John hadn't had them both inked up when they were teens.
If he'd had the tattoo, he wouldn't have had to suffer the invasion of his body and mind by Meg; not have been responsible for the killing of an innocent hunter and of nearly doing the same to Jo and Dean. Yet as they had seen with Mrs Tran, it wasn't a complete guarantee against demon possession. Crowley had simply burnt off the tattoo and taken control of her body.
He shivered at the thought of being invaded so intimately again, of having his hidden thoughts and desires laid bare to a hostile entity. Maybe he and Dean should get an extra tattoo done in a less obvious part of their bodies; under the soles of their feet, or the small of their backs, for instance.
He'd suggest it as soon as he got the chance; back-up was always a good thing.
X
X
"Hey dude! You gonna camp out in there all day? I gotta take a leak!" Dean's voice filtered impatiently through the door.
"Dean, there are at least two other toilets in the bunker, just why do you need to use this one?" Sam griped.
"Yeah, but this one's the nearest, and it's the one I always use!" Dean grumbled as he rapped on the door.
x
Sam dropped the towel and slipped into the robe that he had occasionally begun to wear. It was similar to the one Dean loved to lounge about in, but Sam still preferred his tee-shirt and jeans and usually threw it off as soon as he was dry.
He padded to the door and opened it, almost getting hit in the face as Dean pushed past him.
"What the friggin' hell Dean! " Sam grunted annoyed.
"It's urgent, man," his big brother declared, man-handling him out the door and closing it. "Sammy!" he yelled in afterthought. "I might be in here longer than I thought. There's stuff laid out in the kitchen. Think you can handle making dinner tonight?"
Sam rolled his eyes heaven-ward as he heard the tap turning and the water pouring into the bath-tub.
"Yeah Dean. I can handle pasta and beans! Just don't fall asleep in the tub like last time when your nose was a millimeter from slipping underwater!" Sam warned.
"I'll be careful, mom. If anything happens to me, who's gonna look out for your ungrateful ass!" Dean snickered.
Sam made his way to the kitchen, shaking his head at idiot big brothers, his still wet hair leaving a trail of droplets behind him.
X
The enD