Written because I chopped off my waist-long hair to just below my shoulders today and am still not 100% sure I like it. Hope you enjoy :)
John Winchester almost had the decency to feel sorry for his youngest. He looked pitiful, what with his eyes streaming red-hot tears and his nose leaking snot. His wails echoed inside the compact space hat was the Impala, and his pudgy little hands were clenched into fists as he shook them angrily.
However, the crying had been going on for what seemed like hours now, and both John and Dean were lacking the patience to deal with a five-year-old having at temper tantrum at this point.
John was driving, making his way at high speed to Wichita in hopes that they'd get there as soon as possible so they wouldn't have to be stuck in the car with Sam anymore. His knuckles were white as he clutched the steering wheel with all his might. He was on wit's end, torn between pulling the car over and giving Sam the scolding of his life or just giving in to the child's wishes. Dean was riding at his side, posture saying that he was tired and wanted to fall asleep, but their current situation not allowing it. The poor kid looked miserable, hands covering his ears and tiny nose scrunched up in distaste as his red-rimmed eyes drooped half-lidded.
"Dad," he whimpered, nearly drowned out by his brother's howling, "make him stop."
John clenched his jaw, Dean's uncharacteristic complaining raising his stress levels. "Samuel Winchester, shut your trap this instant, or you aren't getting dinner!" he growled in his most authoritative voice.
That stopped the boy's wails for a moment. The young boy looked up at his father in the front seat in curiosity, before repeating his former shrill serenades.
John grimaced, and Dean yelled, "Sammy, shut up!"
Sam continued to cry.
Dean groaned, pulling his knees up to his chest. "Maybe you should just give him what he wants, Dad…"
"No, he needs to learn that I am in charge here, not him!" John breathed in deep through his nose and let out an angry sigh. "This is how kids become spoiled."
Dean looked down, and muttered in frustration, "Why can't he just listen? I listened. He's being a…a brat."
"Dean, do not call your brother names!"
"I'm sorry!" Dean called out, throwing up his hands in exasperation. His voice rose in anger as he continued, "I'm just tired, and he's being annoying, and I know you're irritated too!"
As much as John wanted to scold his eldest on his tone of voice, he knew he was right. If this went on for much longer, he would have to stop for the night and make it to Wichita tomorrow, as much as he hated to leave Caleb waiting like that. There was a gang of vamps in the area that they needed to get rid of, and if he didn't get there soon, Caleb would go kill them himself, and that would not turn out well.
John nearly slammed his head on the steering wheel when Sam's wails intensified. Dean covered his ears again, and John pressed down on the gas pedal. So what if he was speeding a bit…it's not like any cops were around. Finally, after nearly a half-hour of driving at speeds that weren't completely legal, they reached a small town and checked into a motel for the night. It wasn't even sundown, but John couldn't take it any more. One more minute in the car with that boy—who was still screaming at the top of his lungs, somehow—and he'd be forced to brutally murder his son, no questions asked. He was sure that at this point, even Dean wouldn't mind.
He briskly told Dean to get into the motel room, then was left to deal with Sam, whose cries had stopped altogether at the sight of his father's extremely angry face.
"No dinner," he said, "no television, no candy, no speaking to Dean or I without being directly spoken to. Understand?"
Sam's pale eyes widened, and he nodded hesitantly, sensing the danger in his father's voice.
"And when we get inside, I'm cutting your hair."
"No!" Sam hollered, face red. "You can't, I don't want you to!"
John bared his teeth, and grasped his five-year-old's arm tightly. Sam went quiet again. "I am your father, and you will listen to me," he growled. "No more of this crying and screaming, or you'll be in a hell of a lot more trouble than you already are. You hear me?"
Sam nodded again, face shrouded no longer in his petulent, obstinant attitude, but fear.
"I can't hear your head rattle, Sam."
Sam gulped, his tiny neck bobbing. "Yes, sir," he said dutifully, if not hesitantly.
"Good, now get inside," John ordered. He watched his son scamper off, and couldn't help but think how rough his adolescence would be. Dean was the perfect soldier. He never questioned orders, so when John said they'd be getting haircuts at the next stop, Dean had simply nodded, elaborating on how his hair was getting a little annoying. Sam, who proudly sported a curled mop of hair that currently reached his shoulders, had loudly protested, hence the argument that had ensued in the car. Now, John was going to lay down the law; Sam would get his hair cut where and when John said so, and there would be no altercations when that moment did arrive.
He entered the motel room to see Dean exiting the bathroom, pajamas on, and heading for bed. The nine-year-old looked exhausted, the bags under his eyes deriving from the all-nighter he'd pulled with his dad last night to help with the packing and research, and the incessant screams that had penetrated his ears for hours today.
"Sam's hiding in the tub," Dean said, his voice dull. "You should just do it so we can all go to bed."
John nodded, and ruffled Dean's hair. "Planning on it, kiddo. Trust me. You can go on to sleep. Don't wait up."
Dean smiled, green eyes ever-knowing. They were too old, John saw, but right now they mostly held childish burnout and annoyance for his brother's antics.
Grabbing a pair of scissors from his duffel, John called, "All right, Sam! Five minutes, that's all this has to take!"
He heard Dean chuckle behind him; they both knew that wouldn't be the case.
Though Dean was mostly laughing because he knew John was rubbish at haircuts.
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