The Impala sat alone in a five-spot parking lot just off of Highway 33, her dark hood warmed by the sun's rays as it tipped over its apex. A soft breeze rocked a rusted swing and blew handfuls of the earliest fallen leaves over the asphalt and the yellowing grass of Scottsdale Metro Park. A few blew under an old picnic table and got stuck, fluttering against denim-clad legs.
Dean squinted, his fact tilted up to the sun, elbows resting on the table, his hands lightly clasping a beer. His shoulders were relaxed, and he let out a contented sigh through his nose as gentle fingers combed through his hair. They stilled, a portion of hair tugged upright between two fingers, and he could hear a quiet snip snip before bits of hair fell around his ears.
The hands carded through his hair again, and he took a swig of beer, setting it down with a refreshed 'aaaah.' "Don't take too much off the top, Sammy."
His head was jerked roughly back into position. "Stop moving, Dean. If you're not careful I'll take too much off the top of your ear." Sam frowned and carded his fingers through his hair again, pulling up strands and eye-balling them, trying to see if they're even. Carefully, he cut a little more off the right, and ruffled the hair vigorously.
"Look at me. Let me see." Dean turned around and made a face as his brother stared intently at his head, hands on his hips. He reached out and combed the front down, and then tossed the scissors onto the table. "Okay," he said nodding, "you're finished."
Dean ran his own hands over his hair, dislodging more bits of hair that fell onto the old towel around his shoulders. It didn't feel too butchered.
"It looks fine," Sam said, and then tugged the towel off his shoulders.
"Hey, watch it!" Dean protested as itchy hair fell down into his collar. "Bitch."
"Jerk," Sam responded automatically, shaking the towel off into the grass.
Dean stood and walked over to the Impala, bending over to look at himself in the mirror. It was actually a good haircut. He wasn't really surprised; Sam had had years of practice. "Don't worry." Dean shot Sam a grin. "Not even you could maul my devastating good looks."
Sam rolled his eyes and walked over, shoving the towel and scissors back into the trunk.
"You want me to do you?" Dean asked, gesturing at Sam with his beer bottle.
"No thanks. I'm good. Unlike you, I don't need a haircut every two weeks."
"And unlike you, waitresses never think I'm some kind of giant chick."
"It was dark at that diner Dean!"
"Yeah, whatever Samantha." Dean smirked, leaning against the Impala; Sam joined him, jostling his shoulder before settling against the car with his own beer.
Somewhere, there were angels, and demons, and a destiny waiting for them. But for that afternoon, they were just two brothers taking care of each other. Like they always did. Like they always would.