Sam studied himself in the bathroom mirror. He couldn't stand to look at his own reflection anymore, not after he remembered what had happened while his body had wandered around minus his soul. It had gotten worse lately though, especially after coming face to face with some of the people whose lives he had effected.

He looked down at the sink, averting his eyes from meeting their reflection. In all the time he had studied himself, he had not looked in his own eyes once. His hair fell forward, obscuring his vision. Stupid hair. The last girl said she remembered him by it.

"You had that gorgeous hair," she had said, "But I wouldn't leave with you because there was nothing in your eyes."

He brushed his hair aside and looked back into the mirror again. He forced himself to look himself in the eye. He saw pain in them, sadness, fear, and then a spark of joy; because he actually saw emotion in them. They were once again windows that looked in on something other than an empty house. He sighed heavily as though some great weight had lifted off of him. Now if there was only a way to make the rest of him different from the former shell that seemed to only leave pain and destruction in its wake.

He looked down at the sink again, this time he saw the beard trimmers he had just used to clean up his side burns. He also noticed the scissors in one of the slots of the toothbrush holder.

"Easiest way to change how you look," he thought to himself, "Is to hack off your most distinguishing trait."

He couldn't do that though…could he? It would probably actually be easy, he gave a small shrug. But how would he even look with short hair? It had been five years since it was even remotely short. Given the tools in front of him and the fact that he was planning on doing it himself, he assumed it would have to be much shorter than it was then if it were to look even somewhat even and descent.

"Well," he muttered aloud, "Dean is out for the next hour or so getting supplies. It's really now or never if I don't want him sticking his nose in. If it looks horrible, I'm sure there's a barbershop in town."

He debated a moment on whether to start with the scissors or the trimmer. He decided on the scissors and in a flash, he found himself holding a sizeable lock away from the top of his head with the scissors poised to cut. He closed his grip.

"No going back," he thought looking at the one inch of hair remaining on his head. It still drooped against his forehead a little, like it was trying ever so hard to fall into his eyes. He smirked, letting the lock go into the sink so he was free to repeat the process. He repeated it over and over, cutting the sides closer and just randomly chopping at the back, assuming the beard cleaner would even it out in the end.

After phase one had been complete he studied himself again. He looked much better than he remembered he looked with short hair. Of course, the last time he could remember was, at the latest, prepubescent. The one inch remnants on top looked tussled and trendy. He laughed. "I'm pretty good at this," he thought.

He picked up the beard trimmer and set it on the highest setting, what would have probably been a 4 if it had been a real hair clipper. He ran it all over the back and side and with careful maneuvers he even managed a pretty good fade effect into the top.

Then he removed the guard all together. He carefully cleaned up his hairline in the back and then shaved his side burns off. They had gotten a bit unruly anyway, and without unruly hair to match, they seemed severely out of place. He managed to even clean up around his own ears. For someone who hadn't had a haircut in years, he was pretty good at giving himself one.

He smiled as he looked at the finished product. It was about the best facsimile to a smile of true happiness he had felt grace his face in seven years. His hair was still slightly longer than Dean's and that was pretty much all that mattered. He found his brother's hair gel and styled it a bit, giving it a tussled look. While his mind was better organized than Dean's, his hair had never been, and he saw no need to make it so now.

Looking down at the sink and the bathroom floor he saw a carpet of dark brown. "I should clean that up," he thought. "Or I could leave it for Dean to find and just wander off for a bit so he's confused," he chuckled softly. The only thing that stopped him was the ever present thought of curses and the infinite uses for human hair in the practice of such things. He carefully cleaned up every strand, placing them all in the metal waste basket, opening a window, and burning it all to ash. No one would be making a Sam Winchester voodoo doll just because he wanted to screw with Dean.

He decided that the best way to screw with his brother would be to get dressed and sit in the chair by the door reading a book. He'd get to see his face that way anyway, which was better than just imagining what it would look like from the coffee shop down the street.

He was, in fact, deep into his research when Dean got home. He hadn't meant to be. It barely registered that he was supposed to be watching Dean when he heard the key in the door. Luckily, his instincts had that under control, forever heightened and vigilant at this point, he couldn't look back at his book until he had gained confirmation it was actually Dean who walked in.

As soon as he did his jaw practically hit the floor. It was then that Sam remembered why he was supposed to be watching him. He smirked and involuntarily reached a hand to rub the soft remnants on the back of his head.

"What…the…fuck, Sammy." Dean finally spoke,

"What do you think? I did it myself."

"It actually looks good," his older brother blinked a few times before recovering, "You might actually give me some competition with the ladies now. Anyway, I brought pie."