(no warnings for this one.)

Sam's Hair

"Stop wiggling."

"Dean-"

"Just...just sit still or I'm gonna take off an eyebrow or worse. You want an eyepatch?"

A giggle. "I could be a pirate."

"No you couldn't. You're five, Sam. You'd look damn ridiculous, now just...Sam!"

"Okay!"

Dean huffs.

"Who complained he couldn't read his precious chapter book because his hair was too damn long? Huh?"

Dean snips the air a couple of times with the med kit scissors. Sam's butt won't settle because he's five and all the world is big and wonderful and amazing and engraved on paper. And he's found that out and he's ravenous.

Like monsters are ravenous. Like the things Dad kills...like the thing that burned all of Mom's skin and flesh and hair from her bones.

"Okay now." He goes in with the scissors.

"Dean, don't make it too short."

"You let me be the judge of that, okay? Now stop tryin' to talk to me when I've got two blades to your face maybe?"

Sam's lower lip juts out. He really concentrates. He puts his hands in his lap and he's a good kid, really.

"Ready?"

Sam nods. He looks up. He's not afraid of the scissors, like, at all. Because he trusts Dean. He trusts Dean to do the right thing. To keep him safe. To not let him be a one-eyed pirate kid in kindergarten.

"Okay."

The first snip. And the second and third and Dean's on this like target practice. As if the world hangs in the balance of a haircut, because he'll never hurt Sam. And if Sam wants to see things so clearly, then he's going to no matter what. But that world is going to push into his space whether he can see it or not.

Whether Sam finds it out from Dad or not.

Sam never asks Dad to cut his hair. It's like they both know, Sam and Dean. Dad's a great hunter but a sucky barber. And Dean never can be sure how much Dad has been drinking, and yes, Dad's an awesome shot. Steady as they come. But Sam's head isn't a monster's head.

Maybe Dean doesn't want Sam to see clearly, and that's why he's got to be a shaggy dog before it gets cut. Maybe he never wants Sam to know that the world is full of danger and monsters and fire and death.

"Almost done. You're being a good kid, Sam."

Sam won't move, but he's happy with the compliment. Dean can see the corners of his little mouth turning up. He's so easy to please.

"Dean, cut my hair. I can't read my book."

Pieces of Sam fall away onto the motel floor. They are the leavings of a boy turning, by strands and inches and moments, into a man who will never be able to come back to this moment of innocence again.

"There."

Dean pulls the scissors away. He swooshes his hand through Sam's slightly less-floppy hair.

"Whaddayou think?"

Sam draws a breath. Looks around with a gasp as if he was blind up until two seconds ago. Like the world is suddenly a new thing to explore and to prize.

"I can see!"

"Yeah? No eyepatch this time, Blackbeard."

Sam giggles and slides off the chair so he can run to the bed. So he can get his book out of his bag and read it. Not to the bathroom to see what he looks like, no, because Sam trusts Dean. Trusts that he got it right. And, of course, Dean gave him the gift of sight just now...

The big brother sighs, reaches down to the small clumps of hair on the floor. They tickle his fingertips. Dead pieces of Sam...pieces of Sam he'll be forced to throw away...

"Dean..."

It tickles. The hair tickles.

"Holy crap, Dean. Are you alive?"

Dean opens his eyes. He's not reaching for the gun because it's Sam's voice. Just Sam.

Sam's grown up face is inches from his own. Floppy hair curtains them from the world. For a second, Dean can smell the toothpaste Sam brushed with, his aftershave. His breath and his life.

"Dude..."

Dean's one word breaks the spell. Sam makes a face, backpedals fast half-laughing. Morning breath.

The moment is over.

"Dude, that is awful."

"You asked for it."

"I had to make sure you were still breathing. When did you get in last night?"

Vodka. Whiskey. Beer chasers. Neon lights making trails of bright licorice. Red lipstick smile, a fingertip on his thigh.

But no. Sam's hair is getting so goddamn long...Someone has to stay home. Cut that hair.

He watches Sam pack his things all long limbs and long hair and still shaking his head at the awfulness of Dean's breath

"Late. Early. Whatever. Something."

Sam looks up. He's detecting a tone. Dean buckles it down, rolls over so his brother can't look at his face.

"You feeling okay? Need an aspirin?"

"Nope. Coffee."

Dean checks his phone. Holsters his gun. Puts away his bowie.

Sam's left hand is an imprint on his shoulder. The other offers a paper cup steaming with an aroma Dean craves. He takes it and looks up.

"Seriously, dude. You okay?"

"Sam."

"Yeah?" He sits down on the bed opposite Dean. He settles, ready to listen. His eyebrows are halfway up his head. He's thinking they're about to have a talk, hands clasped in his lap. Sitting still. Waiting patiently for Dean to begin. To cut. To open his eyes to the world.

"Just lemme cut it, man."

Sam rolls his eyes but he laughs. The tension leaves him and he stands up. Another moment Dean kills.

"Just stop asking, Dean. It's fine. I like it better this way."

Yeah. So did I. Once.

Dean gets up. The new day begins.