Sam's hair was becoming a problem.
"Winchester!" a voice snapped behind him. Gripping his backpack straps, Sam turned and faced Mr. Cornwallis – The Bulldog, they called him in hushed whispers.
"Yes, sir?" he said weakly. But he knew what Cornwallis was going to say. He tried to subtly shake a strand of hair out of his eyes, but Cornwallis caught it and narrowed his eyes.
"You will have that hair off your face and off your collar by tomorrow or I will be sending you home with a note to your father," he yelled. Several students stopped in the hallway around them to watch Sam sink into the ground, ears red with humiliation. Cornwallis nodded and, with a glare that sent the other students scurrying, strode off down the corridor. Sam watched him go, letting his bangs flop over his eyes to hide them from the crush of students around him.
When Sam was twelve, he started fighting the haircuts.
Dean was always in charge of trimming both of their hair, and at first he just rolled his eyes and held Sam down in the chair while he was cutting it with the same stationary kit scissors he always used. He figured it was a phase, and thought nothing of it.
After a year, he gave up the fight and just let Sam's hair grow, much to their military father's anger. Once Sam's hair reached past his collar, he would often lay awake at night listening to his father and older brother shout at each other, Dean raging that Sam could do whatever he wanted with his own hair, John arguing that "a boy had to have standards" and how he wouldn't let Sam "look like a goddamn fag". The night he pulled out that particular word, Dean had yelled something Sam couldn't make out – he'd shoved the pillow over his head after hearing John's words – and then stomped his way up the stairs into the room he shared with Sam. Head still under the pillow, Sam heard the door creak and Dean step into the room quietly. The bed dipped near Sam's knees and a hand fell on his shoulder.
"I know you're awake," Dean said softly. Sam peeked out from under the pillow. "S'okay, Sammy. Don't listen to Dad. You can do whatever you want with your hair."
Sam sat up to look Dean in the face. He'd started to get his growth spurt two months before, and was already losing the puppy fat of his childhood and gaining height rapidly. Soon he'd be as tall as Dean. "Dad won't make me cut it?" he asked timidly. Dean smiled and ruffled Sam's shaggy hair.
"Nah," he said. "Don't worry about it, Sammy. Anyone has a problem with your hair, they have to go through me, alright?" Sam nodded, a smile slowly forming. Dean pulled him in for a hug and quickly kissed his temple before standing up. "Get some sleep, little brother. I'll be back in a few minutes."
Sam was almost certain he was going back downstairs to yell at their Dad some more, but with his big brother's assurances, he fell asleep to the sound of Dean tramping down the stairs again.
Sam was fourteen now, and he had almost caught up to Dean in height. They'd come to an agreement sixth months after Dean's promise, when Sam's hair had grown longer and become more likely to tangle and snarl, that Dean would trim it every couple of months, but only to keep it neat. By the time Sam turned fourteen, his hair was half an inch from his shoulders, and nothing anyone said could make him feel bad about it. Especially when Dean was walking beside him, an arm hooked around his shoulder, snarking and throwing back insults at the catcallers, laughing and ruffling Sam's hair.
"Are you alright, Sam?" Castiel asked when Sam reached the library. Cas had obviously been there for a while; his books were spread out on the table, battered laptop whirring quietly in the middle. They both came to the library on Thursday afternoons, when Dean had hockey practice and Cas' older brother Gabriel worked a later shift at his work. Sam nodded and put his books down on the table, then sat down opposite his best friend.
"Just some guys hanging around," he muttered. Cas frowned and tilted his head, calmly looking over the bruise darkening Sam's cheek.
"I suppose it is good they didn't get your eye," he said. Then, frown deepening, he added, "Dean will not be pleased."
Sam sighed and hung his head over his books. Of course Dean wouldn't be pleased. When the hockey practices had moved to Thursdays, Dean had insisted Sam sit on the bleachers for the duration just so Dean could keep an eye on him. But when the weather started to get colder, Sam wore Dean down until he let him study in the library instead. Now that this had happened, he'd probably be stuck in the bleachers for every Thursday afternoon until summer.
"They tried to cut my hair," he said suddenly. He stayed hunched over his books so he didn't have to see Cas' intense gaze on him. "They head Cornwallis saying I needed to have my hair cut by tomorrow, and they were trying to hold me down – and then one of them got out these scissors," he broke off, throat thick. Cas was silent.
After a minute, a tentative hand touched Sam's shoulder. He looked up through his bangs and saw Cas leaning across the table, expression compassionate. Sam liked that about Cas; he didn't give out or even really sympathy, only anger and sadness on behalf of others. "I'm sorry they tried to do that, Sam," he said gently, with a small frown. "I do not understand why people focus on your hair, or why they feel they must impose their own standards upon you, but I am sorry that they do." With that, he sat back in his seat and continued his work.
"Thanks, Cas," Sam said, quietly, then pulled his homework out of his bag and began writing.
A lot of people asked Sam why he grew his hair long. It was a stupid question.
"Do I need a reason?" he answered most of the time. When he was feeling particularly annoyed, he'd shoot back, "Because your mom told me she liked it better this way." He mostly said that when Dean was around, so he could feel the smug, happy feeling that came with seeing his brother throw his head back and roar with laughter.
Hell, Dean had even asked once, although he'd followed the question up quickly with, "You're not trying to look like Gabriel, are you?" Sam had squealed "NO!" hurriedly, ears turning red, leading Dean to tease Sam about an apparent crush on Cas' older brother for weeks. He'd never asked Sam the question again.
Truthfully, he did have a reason, although he had never told anyone that, not even Dean.
The week after Dean's sixteenth birthday, an old friend of John's had come to visit. Both Sam and Dean mostly stayed out of his way; Dean out of wariness, Sam out of shyness. When Sam had gone to bed and Dean was in the study on his laptop, the sounds of conversation drifted from the kitchen:
"Boy sure does look like his mom," John's friend commented. They had both been drinking, and weren't bothering to keep their voices down. "Uncanny, almost."
"Shoulda seen him when he was a little kid," John agreed. "Almost went back to the doctor asking if he wasn't sure he hadn't accidently written down the wrong gender on the birth certificate," he continued, making his friend laugh loudly. Sam curled up under his covers and screwed his eyes up, willing himself to sleep. He didn't like his Dad when he was drunk.
"But Sam! Kid looks just like you, John, should be right proud of him."
"He does, doesn't he?" John mused. "He'd look a little more like me if he cut his damn hair more often, though. I'm starting to wonder about that kid… doesn't like sports, nose always stuck in a book, never even talked about any girls in his class. At least Dean's growing in to a proper man."
"Don't worry John, I'm sure Sam'll grow up to be just like you – unless he's a pansy, of course," his friend laughed. There was a thump, but the man's laughter continued.
"You shut your mouth, Rufus," John growled. They lowered their voices after that, but Sam had already heard enough.
He wasn't entirely sure what being a pansy entailed, except that it was nothing good, but he could understand everything else said perfectly. His father was ashamed of him; fine. John was never the figure that his classmates' fathers seemed to be, and Sam certainly didn't crave his approval in the way everyone else seemed to. Dean was the one he looked up to, the one he relied on, the one whose opinion mattered. And Dean had never called Sam a "pansy" or implied that he was ashamed of him – far from it. Dean always looked at Sam like he was the greatest thing in his life, and it was that more than anything else that fueled Sam's decision.
The next time Dean tried to cut his hair, he would refuse. If cutting his hair meant he would be more like John, then he would never cut his hair ever again.
Dean was pissed.
"Tell me who they were, I'll kick their asses so hard they won't be able to poop for weeks," he snarled, kicking at the bin resting on the curb. Sam grabbed his arm and pulled him around to face him.
"Please, Dean, if you get into a fight they'll tell Dad, and he'll act like its friggin' justification to cut my hair," he pleaded. "It's okay Dean, it's okay."
"It is not!" Dean yelled, ripping his arm away. "Those friggin' asshats are out there laughing it up over beating on a kid, just because your hair is different?" He put a hand on Sam's face, thumb brushing over the bruise that was already a dark purple. "They were literally going to attack you with a bladed weapon, Sam, that's not just something you can say was nothing!"
"It was nothing, Dean," he insisted. Dean's hand dropped from his cheek to his shoulder. "The jumped me, I was too surprised to fight back, they bought out the scissors and I kicked enough knees and groins in to get out. I'm fine. We don't have to bring Dad into this."
Dean sighed heavily and rubbed both hands over his face. "Fine," he said eventually. "I won't tell Dad, I won't hunt those douchenozzles down and beat them into next week. But no way are you cutting your hair, okay? Cornwallis can suck it."
Sam practically crashed into his brother, hugging him tightly. Dean patted his back and smiled into his hair.
Even with Dean's comforting arm over his shoulder, Sam was still nervous walking into school the next day.
They walked to Sam's locker first, and then after Sam had collected his books for first period and briefly chatted with Cas, they headed through the hallways to Dean's locker. Sam leant against the row of lockers and shyly spoke a few words to Benny, one of Dean's friends, while Dean himself regaled a crowd of gathered girls with a hockey story from practice the day before. Before long Sam had forgotten any nerves he's had.
"Winchester!"
And then he remembered them.
Sam and Dean both snapped around to face the whip crack voice. Cornwallis was charging down the hallway, students parting before him. He stopped half a metre from Sam and stared him down.
"I believe I told you yesterday, Winchester, that if you came to school today with your hair still like – that," he sneered, gesturing, "then I would be forced to send you home with a note for your father. If you'd like to come with me- ,"
"Wait," Dean said, stepping forward. Several students gasped. "You want Sam's hair off his collar and out of his face, right?"
"Very much so." Cornwallis' voice was like ice.
Dean turned to the group of girls he'd been entertaining and smiled charmingly. "Jo," he said smoothly, "mind if I borrow a hair tie?" Jo instantly slid one off her wrist and smirked back at him, obviously seeing where he was going. Dean took the hair tie and stepped up behind Sam.
Sam stilled when he felt Dean's hand in his hair, and instantly understood. In complete dead silence, Dean expertly pulled his brother's hair up into a short ponytail on the back of his head; just high enough so that the bottom of it rested above Sam's collar.
"There you go, Mr. Cornwallis, sir," Dean said briskly, settling his hand on Sam's shoulder. "Off the collar and everything. No need to go sending him home now."
"I believe I also said that Samuel must have his hair cut," Cornwallis said frostily, rage manifesting in a twitch at his left eye.
"Why?" Dean challenged, stepping in front of Sam now. "Hair's out of his face, off his collar, no need for it to get cut. I mean, you require girls do the same thing, and I don't see you going around yelling at them to cut their hair."
Spluttering, Cornwallis shouted, "That is entirely different, Mr. Winchester, and I highly suggest you cease arguing with me right now!"
"There ain't nothing different about it and you know it," Dean shouted back. He glanced back at Sam and saw his hunched shoulders and watery eyes, and the rage pushed him to add, "You're just pissed that you can't control every single person who comes through this crappy old joint!"
"Mister Winchester!" Cornwallis roared, eyes bugging, face impossibly red.
"Is there a problem here?" A low, throaty voice said from behind Dean.
Standing there was Ellen Harvelle, Dean's shop teacher. Dean had never seen a more welcome sight.
"These Winchesters," Cornwallis spluttered, waving a hand at Dean and Sam, "are blatantly disregarding the school rules and questioning the authority of a teacher!"
Ellen crossed her arms and looked to Dean. "Want to explain, Dean?" she said simply.
"Mr. Cornwallis asked Sam to get his hair out of his face and off his collar, ma'am," he said promptly. "So I tied it back for him, and now he's saying it's gotta be cut. I just pointed out that girls with their hair tied up aren't asked to cut their hair- ,"
"This is preposterous," Cornwallis began, but Ellen silenced him with a quick hand gesture. She then turned her hard stare to Sam, half cowering behind his brother.
"Sam?" she said gently. Sam sniffed and inched forward.
"Dean tied my hair up and it's out of my face and off my collar, ma'am," he said in a wobbly voice. Dean put an arm around his shoulder and pulled him close to his side. Ellen looked them over and nodded.
"Seems clear cut to me, Mr. Cornwallis," she said briskly. Dean heaved an internal sigh of relief and felt Sam relax next to him. "Sam's hair meets the school rules without needing to be cut. No need to send him home, no need for any notes to go to any parents. Unless you feel the need to warn parents about the evils of a boy walking around with a ponytail, of course," she added, a glint of wicked humour in her eye. Several students around them tittered. Cornwallis simply clenched his fists and stormed back down the hallway, footsteps echoing behind him.
The silence stayed for another few moments, before Ellen broke it, calling out, "Come on, kids, bell's going any second." Students broke rank and rushed to head off for class just as the bell sounded. In the middle of the sudden movement, Ellen, Sam and Dean all remained still.
"Thanks for sticking up for us, ma'am," Dean said gratefully, still clutching Sam to his side. Not that Sam was making any attempt to move away.
"No problem, boys," she said easily. "Cornwallis is a dinosaur when it comes to – well, everything really. You won't get any trouble from any other teacher; everyone else knows that hair's a mighty stupid thing to argue over," she said, winking at Sam. He gave a watery grin and scrubbed at his eyes. "I'll tell your teachers that you boys'll be a little late," she added tactfully. Dean thanked her and led Sam to the bathroom in the next hall over.
Sam hurried to the basin and turned the tap on, splashing water on his face and scrubbing his eyes and cheeks. When he looked up into the mirror, they were both still red, but he was distracted by the sight of his hair. "Dean…" he said quietly, touching the back of it. It was odd to feel it stretched loosely over his scalp; he'd grown used to having it in a curtain around his face, ready to hide behind at a moments' notice. Now his face looked smaller, more exposed, all pulled back into a short bunch at the back of his head.
"Look okay?" Dean asked from where he was leaning against a wall. "Kinda thought it up on the spot – saw Gabriel wearing his hair like it the other week, so I guess he's good for something," he muttered, nose wrinkling. Sam giggled. Dean smiled at the sound and continued, "Good thing you had enough hair for it - woulda been a little embarrassing if I pulled all your hair up and it didn't all go in." There were a few wispy strands hanging down the side off his face still, bits that weren't long enough, but he could tuck those behind his ears; he'd seen girls do it all the time. "This way you get the teachers off your back and you don't have to cut it. Surprised I didn't think of it before, actually."
Sam touched the ponytail and his smile grew. "I don't think Dad would've liked it," he murmured. "But I do." He turned to Dean and threw himself into his brother's arms again. "Thank you, for sticking up for me back there."
"Course I stuck up for you," Dean scoffed, tightening his arms around Sam. "What kind of brother would I be if I didn't? You looked so pathetic, I had to do something." He laughed as Sam pulled away and punched him in the arm.
"Whatever," Sam said, putting on an injured tone. "Get to class, Dean."
"Yeah, yeah," he chuckled, flowing Sam out of the bathroom. When they reached a junction in the hall and separated, Dean reached out and grabbed Sam's shoulder, squeezing once. "You have a good day, okay little brother?"
"Yeah," Sam said, clutching his books and grinning brightly. "I will."