Sam's a wreck, and Dean has no idea how to help him. How do you protect kids from themselves? Teenchesters, hurt!Sam, protective!Dean.
Dean figured that it was probably a good thing that they never stayed all that long in one place or one school. Hell, he had cocked up his reputation over and over again, in every state, in almost every school he and Sam had gone to. Sometimes it had gone admittedly well, with him scoring with the local regality, and other times it had gone positively awful, with him ending up in hand-to-hand combat with the beefy boyfriend of aforementioned regality.
And then there were times where Dean wondered who their real enemies were: spirits, tulpas, and vampires? Or freakin' high schoolers?
They were in Missouri, in a miserable, run-down high school that may or may not have been infested with cockroaches. Dad was in the nearby town, hunting what Dean believed to be a werewolf (though he wasn't too sure) while he and Sam tried to assimilate in Florence High School. Both Sam and Dean were hoping to be part of the hunt this time, because according to John, it was going to involve a lot of research and backup, but in the end he had deemed it far too dangerous for his sons and had found an experienced friend of his to have his back, and Dean and Sam found themselves in Florence. Poor Sam was in a state of despair; Dean had caught him longingly eyeing the much nicer private school down the road, but had wisely chosen not to say anything and had let Sam brood in silence.
"Dean," Sam broke it on his own, shifting his backpack. Dean reemerged from his thoughts to spare his shaggy-haired brother an acknowledging look. Fourteen year old Sam was such a geek, always with his nose buried in his books and a gangly frame that Dean worried would garner him teasing. Sam had put up with a lot of crap, and school bullies were like flies. Small but persistent headaches. "I've to go talk to my teacher, so I'll meet you after." Trust Sam to want to be around his teachers before school even started. Dean just nodded his acquiesce, eyes already tracking the highly attractive Miranda Rice as she sashayed towards the school (and almost missing Sam's fond eye-roll).
"Sure, Sammy, whatever," he said, the makings of a smirk playing across his mouth, "don't trip over your own feet, nerd," he added as he swiped affectionately at Sam's mop of brown hair. Sam ducked futilely, grumbling as he always did when the older Winchester dared to grab the hair.
"Sam. And don't get lost up Miranda's legs," he tossed back, now at an age where retorts came easier to him than they had when he was younger. Dean always knew the kid had it in him. He tossed Sam what he hoped the kid would recognize was an appreciative look and strutted after Miranda. He had no doubts that Sam would be perfectly okay- the fact was that the kid was good, especially in close combat. Sam was like that- good at things, a fair bit of genius hidden in the broody yet polite nature. Not like Dean didn't know that. Not like Dean wasn't crazy proud of that. He turned one last time, easily making out the tufts of brown hair as they vanished with Sam into the building before he turned back to pursue Randy. Yep, Sam would be good.
Miranda was not a lost case. She redefined 'party girl,' and by the time Dean left her car after an intensive make-out session, he had an invitation tucked into his jacket pocket. It was for a couple weeks later, and Dean had a strong suspicion that he would be long gone by then, but nevertheless, he felt like he'd done well. As he hurried for the Impala, he hoped that Sam had, too- for both of their sakes.
The truth of the matter was that Dean was really tired of beating Sam's tormentors into the dust, even though he would do it for Sam eight times over in the same day if he had to. He just wanted Sam to get along. Make more friends than enemies. Not live some sort of pathetic cliche where gangly, awkward kids got slammed into lockers by beefy jocks, which in any case he couldn't see happening, because Sam was one tough mother if you pissed him off. Dean knew that stubborn, annoyed glitter that would hide in the usually warm hazel eyes. He knew it well.
To his relief, his scruffy-haired kid was leaning against the shiny black exterior, poring over what looked like a dictionary with a different title and cover. In fact, Sam hardly even noticed Dean until the older sidled behind him and just about scared him out of his muddy tennis shoes. Dean made a mental note to scout for more shoes for the kid as he chuckled at the bitchy look Sam shot him.
"What is that? How to Not Get a Girlfriend?" He peered over Sam's shoulder and mentally cheered when Sam didn't pull away. Teenagers were hard to take care of, man. Sam's bitchiness had just kept increasing over the past few years, and with it, his scholarly passions. To John's chagrin, Sam displayed more of a desire to sit in the motel and read heavy literature about different lore and creatures rather than actually go out and fight them.
Sam narrowed his eyes but took the jab like a man. "Anna Karenina."
"Gesundheit," Dean said with an absent tousle. Sam's eyebrows twitched, and when Dean snuck a glance again, the kid was hiding a smile. That's right, Sammy. A smile once in a while isn't a crime. Playing off the rush of affection as indigestion, Dean slid into the driver's seat and watched as Sam nearly banged his head on the car as he tried to read and get in at the same time. He snorted, his smile indulgent before he spotted some musclehead and a pixie-looking brunette eyeing the 'Pala. His eyes narrowed, paired with a huff; he usually appreciated attention but somehow didn't enjoy the piggy stare of the beady eyes locked on his Baby.
Sam, alerted by Dean's hesitation, allowed his gaze to stray from the book and onto the rearview mirror. Dean's eyes flickered sideways towards his geeky passenger as a telltale stiffening of Sam's shoulders told him almost all he needed to know.
"Wanna share with the class, Sammy?" He asked in a low voice, sparing one more glance in the mirror before starting the car. Sam sunk in his seat, disappearing behind his massive book until all that was visible was the chocolate hair, and Dean grimaced at the sight.
"Jay Jackson," Sam muttered after a few moments, and Dean had to lean in to hear him. Sam's tone softened to something a little less terse as his eyes, now peering over the book, shifted from Jay to the petite girl beside him, "and Lacey Paradis." Sometimes, Sam was harder to read than his crazy books, and sometimes, he was a picture book. This was like "Goodnight Moon" level reading. This was Dean territory. The older shifted his weight so he was leaning towards his reticent brother before he spoke again.
"So, let me guess, kiddo. You've got your eye on the lady, and Mr. America over there already staked his claim."
"She's not a piece of land, Dean." Came Sam's irritable answer; apparently, he wasn't too keen on discussing the fine details. Dean didn't really blame him- there was a history of female failures in his own past that he had never divulged to Sam.
"No, no, I get it." He watched the kids vanish in the mirror and tried not to smile. "This girl, she in your class, then?"
A wistful look from Sam before the little light vanished and a grimace played at his mouth. "Yes, but she doesn't remember that I exist. She called me Jack this morning." The words were only faintly bitter, and despite himself, Dean sort of wished that Sam felt motivated enough to get angry about it. Because ouch. But Sam was growing up and realizing that they never stayed anywhere for long- and as a result, Lacey Paradis and Lily Bennett and Marianna O'Reilly were just tiny little memories he could stand to forget. Dean sighed, the sound a deep, tired one, and glanced at his unhappy brother once more.
"Someday, Sam." He promised, "Someday, there'll be this fantastic chick who's worth staying in a crappy motel for." Sam didn't respond, but Dean noted with relief that he soon absorbed himself into the book with a less acerbic expression. Such a nerd, he thought fondly as he pulled in front of their motel. Sometimes, the most uneventful days were the best days.
And then there were days like the following Wednesday.
It was a light, springy day with little cirrus clouds roaming like lost sheep along the blue sky, and it was a day where Dean felt like he had accomplished a good amount. He had managed not to piss his teachers off, he was still on Miranda's good side, and he still wasn't in deep crap for beating anyone up.
At least he thought it had been going well, until, in the middle of math, a young, harried looking brown-haired teacher with askew glasses and a mole in the corner of his face burst into the classroom and interrupted the sour-faced Ms. Pennyworth. Dean thought that he'd seen the guy before, but he couldn't recall when or where he had, and it started to niggle the back of his mind relentlessly. It had long been a characteristic of his; when he couldn't figure something out, it sort of killed him.
"Dean, ah, Winchester. Dean Winchester," the man blurted out, looking for all the world as though he had just wet his pants. In typical mature fashion, a loud "Ooooooh!" broke out, and Dean, resisting an eye-roll, emerged from the classroom and into the empty hallway. There he stood, opposite from the teacher, rocking back and forth on his heels with impatient curiosity. He was a bit surprised, in all honesty, because he couldn't have recalled ever encountering the guy. Then where have I...?
"You," the teacher panted, stooped over as though he had run the whole darned way, "you're Sam Winchester's brother, right?" His glasses were just barely hanging from his nose, and Dean took amusement in the sight until the words registered deep into his sort of tired mind.
The world fell out of balance for a second, but Dean closed his eyes and forced himself to be calm. "And legal guardian," he added sharply, now deadly still. "What's happened to him?" Now I remember. This was the guy Sam kept going before school to see; Dean had seen them together in the window of the library with textbooks heavy enough to kill a vampire. On a less humorous note, when Dean had pointed this out to Sam laughingly, a pained look had swept across the younger's face.
Not everything's about hunting, Dean.
That had silenced him.
The teacher took a deep breath before straightening, sweat lining his brow as he adjusted his glasses. Now that Dean could see properly, the man had a very doughy, forgettable face. Like one of the faces you saw on a billboard for dentist commercials before you whipped past it in a rush. "Sam is a brilliant child," he said, his face now pinched with pity and pain and guilt and things Dean didn't want to see. In fact, the one thing he did want to see was curiously absent from the scene.
"I know," Dean responded, the little burst of pride tapering down as fear continued to flood into his stomach. "You haven't told me if he's okay."
He was still giving him the Look. Dean didn't want the Look, he wanted answers.
"And, um, brilliant children sometimes stand out- sometimes, they, their brilliance isn't appreciated by others. Like Albert Einstein, for example-" Okay, Dean was starting to lose his patience. The only reason this guy was using metaphors to describe Sam was because something had gone terribly wrong, and this wasn't goddamn Literature. This was his brother- this was Sam, in trouble, in need of someone, and so help him if this guy kept up his babbling even one moment longer-
"What. Happened. To. Sam." The concise syllables were punctuated with a stony, targeted glare, and the teacher went positively weak-kneed. This sent cold, empty satisfaction down Dean's spine; well, that's what he got for distracting him from the real problem.
"H-He's i-in the n-nurse's office," he balked, his skin going paper white at the lethality written in Dean's features. "A-And his hair-"
Dean was already running.
It was hilariously unfunny for a while. Dean found himself completely rejected, on the wrong side of the curtain that Sam had pulled as soon as he'd seen the toe of Dean's boot cross past the doorway and into the office. The bewildered nurse sat in her chair, watching blankly as a pissed-off Dean tried to pull the curtain open. Which, when you had a distraught and quite strong little brother holding it closed tightly on the other side, was not an easy task.
"God, Sammy, open the curtain," Dean grimaced as he struggled with it, totally regretting at that moment how powerful Sam could be when he was damaged. The achingly hollow voice that responded literally caused Dean's stomach to twist.
"Go'way, Dean. I can take care of myself." This wasn't Hunter Sam... God, this was his little Sammy, the Sammy that needed comfort and help and protection and a big brother by his side for him to tuck against. (Sam had always curled up in that open niche when he needed support, cocooning into his older brother in a way that totally didn't make Dean go a little melty on the inside. Damned little brothers). Dean leaned against the curtain until the soft fabric was more or less encompassing his entire form and could feel Sam's form trembling on the other side. His fingers fisted into the curtain. God, Sam, please, let me in. Who are you gonna let in if not me?
"Sammy," Dean urged, his voice warm, cautiously pleading as he tried to coax Sam to loosen his grip. "C'mon, kid, I'm not going to say anything. I just want to take a look and make sure you're okay." And pound in the faces of whoever did this to you, but that comes later. If Sam heard the fury in his voice, he wouldn't let him in, so Dean tried his damnedest to control the bleakness.
There was a long, forlorn silence; Dean held his breath.
Finally, at the tiniest reprieve, the smallest loosening of Sam's fingers, Dean snatched triumphantly at the opportunity and ripped open the freakin' curtain separating him from his little brother.
His jaw slackened; the opaque plastic slipped right through his fingers and fell back to the floor with a whispering rustle that sounded a lot like a taunt. Or was that just him hearing things?
Sam cringed from Dean's utter shock and tried to hide his defeated expression and multiple bruises from his older brother; it was kinda difficult, though, considering that on both sides of Sam's head, where there had once been abundant brown hair, all that remained were some shorn tufts. The younger Winchester himself was still partially suffering from numb shock, still struggling to cope with the missing hair and the buried, blazing humiliation and the sound of the scissors going snip beside his ears while Jay kept his struggling head pressed to the library table. And now, now he was going to have to face an older brother who wouldn't even have had to face bullies to begin with. No one hated Dean. No one touched Dean.
Dean, who, by the way, looked not unlike a volcano about to blow. He had no freakin' idea what to say to Sam, cause the kid looked like a goddamn mess. Other than the very obvious lack of warm hair, Sam looked much like he'd first ran smack into an electric razor and then been high-fived in the face with a chair.
He sunk unnecessarily on one knee, his fingers reaching out to grasp at the sheared locks; small snippets of the soft brown fell away into his fingers, and Sam flinched at the touch.
And okay, that was it.
Because who needed their brutal hunting lifestyle when Sam's monsters were all hiding behind kids' skins?
Sam must have seen the murder just dripping from his white face, because the kid, God help him, reached out to grasp at Dean's jacket wordlessly. Even the slightest touch caused the older Winchester to jolt, because Sam was so blameless. Jesus, who would ever want to hurt the kid? On God-awful hunts Dean refrained from clocking Sam, even if the kid was acting bitchy. Even now, even now he could hear the mantra that literally drove his frickin' life- Protect Sam. Protect Sam. Protect Sam.
But God, how could he trail after Sammy all day?
"Don't, Dean." Sam sounded so exhausted, and Dean almost wanted to cry out for him. It just wasn't fair- because that teacher wasn't wrong. Sam was a brilliant kid, and one day, he was going to be a brilliant adult, and then he was going to be demanding them to clean his goldfish bowls or something, so help him. But for now, for now, all Dean could do was listen to Sam, even though he would rather have ripped his own hair out than given up on tracking the bullies down. He knew what his dad would do- scold Sam for not defending himself and showing the bullies what he was made of -and somehow, it didn't make him feel better.
His lips pressed together until they were forming just a single, infuriated line, and he turned to the counter to snatch a baseball cap off of a rack of what looked like memorabilia. The nurse almost looked like she wanted to protest, but it seemed to die in her throat when her eyes fell upon the younger Winchester. Dean plopped the baseball cap over his brother's head before steering Sam for the door.
"Wait," the nurse finally rose, and behind her, Dean could see a fast food bag. The grease on her fingers did nothing to quell the storm brewing in the pit of his stomach. Jesus Christ, what is wrong with this school? He sneered questioningly at her. "Y-You can't just take him out of the school, he's a minor-"
"Watch me," Dean bit off before guiding an utterly defeated Sam out. His brother's head was hanging forward limply, his hazel eyes fixated on the floor, and Dean recognized the look with dread. It was Sam's look of shame. God, the kid was probably shivering in anticipation for when he would have to face their Dad for this. He reassuringly dug his fingers into Sam's shoulder as they headed out.
This school could screw itself, and so could that private one where Sam wanted to go for good measure. Dean stood by his brother like a riled bodyguard, shooing the gangly kid gently into shotgun before getting in himself. Yes, he was skipping school, and no, he didn't care. He noticed, with grim disdain, that Sam wasn't feeling all that talkative. The kid had clammed up tighter than one of those barnacles that attached itself to sea docks. Glancing at his brother again, he clenched the wheel and tried to offer some sort of help.
"Hey, Sammy, why don't you read your book? Maybe it'll make you feel better?" He tried, and then watched in horror as Sam's hazel eyes filled.
"It's probably in some toilet somewhere," was the broken response, and the sudden burst of rage in Dean's chest was at least two times more powerful. It was just inhumane, it really was- and somehow, the fact that they'd gone so far to make Sam miserable made his teeth grind together in frustrated agitation.
"We're going to talk about this, Sammy," he said after some persistent breathing exercises; Sam's wide-eyed panic had him rushing to finish. "Not now- hell, not even today. You c'n get some rest, we'll fix your hair, and then we'll talk." Sam's shoulders sagged in response, and he slumped with a weary nod. Dean couldn't gauge his expression beneath the cap, and he didn't really want to; he knew that one look at his little brother's face would send him careening back to the school.
By the time they pulled up to the motel again, Sam was tucked like a roly-poly against the car door, the baseball cap sliding and his knees pressed underneath his chin. Dean unbuckled his belt, leaning over to remove the cap so that he could take a calmer look at the damage. Well, calm was relative, because anger exploded behind his eyes anyway, but he noted with a bit of relief that everything was fixable. Sam's hair would grow out again; it was going to be okay. Again, relatively okay. Because everything was still crappy.
Noting that Sam was probably tired after all the crap he had just endured, Dean wordlessly (and shamelessly) carried his kid brother into the motel and gently deposited him into the bed. Sam hadn't unrolled, but his muscles unknotted a little as he snuffled into the pillow. After he had treated all that could be treated in minutes, Dean sank into a chair opposite the bed.
Yeah, like he could tell his dad that Sam had just let some bullies best him. And cut his hair. He went with the excuse that Sam's hair had bugged him immeasurably, so he dragged him to the nearest barber shop for a cut. As for the bruises? Oops, some kid elbowed Sam in the face. And then elbowed him again. And then he ran into a wall. Dean hunched over in his seat, his face sinking into his palms. There was just no way around something like this. Did Sam have a 'kick me' sign taped to his back? Dean scrubbed his fingers into his face, allowing himself to close his eyes just briefly. It brought little relief, but it spared him the sight of Sam, looking so vulnerable and beaten down.
He dug deeper into his skin. It didn't ease him as much as he hoped it would.
But thankfully, in between the fretting and worry, Dean found himself eased to sleep in the chair only by the sound of Sam's soft snore-breath combination and by the fact that his dad wouldn't be home in a few days, giving him time to think of a plausible explanation.
In a twist of irony, it was also Sam who woke him up in a sort of fatigued panic. Rather, Sam's minute whimpers, so quiet that Dean had to trudge to his brother's bedside, drowsy, to hear them. He had a radar tuned to Sam, and currently? It was spinning wildly. He mumbled a curse when he tripped over Sam's backpack and ended up leaning over his partially asleep brother.
"S'ry-" Sam's hand searched, and Dean conveniently threw his down so that the smaller fingers would find the bigger. He carefully plunked onto his side beside his geeky brother and yawned. Sam hiccuped something that sounded suspiciously like a sob. "'M s'ry that 'm a freak-"
Dean rubbed his eyes to rid them of sleep and said, his words blunt but his tone fond, "Shut up, Sammy." God, this kid. He sat down beside Sam, heaving a sigh and tousling the tufty hair. "The only thing you're freaky for is this hair."
Sam sniffled. Dean's heart broke for him.
"You wanna tell me what happened, kid?" He turned onto his side, his free hand easing beneath Sam to de-stress the tightened muscles and soothe him. Sam, his eyes half open and blurry with tears, started to shake his head but soon sat up as though he had changed his mind, and Dean mimicked the movement. The scruffy head bobbed for a second as Sam hunched over, and Dean thought he might just go crazy, because God, he really, really loved this kid. It wasn't like he had asked everyone to love Sam as much as he did. ('Cause it was impossible.) But maybe what he wanted was for people to just goddamn leave his kid alone, because Sam didn't deserve this.
"I told Lacey she was pretty," Sam admitted, his tone heavy with remorse.
Dean's eyebrows drew together. "And that beefy kid- Jab or Jar or whatever- screwed your face up?" Okay, maybe he did remember the name, but that was only because he made a mental list of people whose legs he wanted to tie to the back Impala before going on a joyride. Funny how all those people were somehow linked to Sam.
But thank the Lord, Sam was giving him the purest bitch-face he could manage with red-rimmed eyes and the sniffles. "Of course not," he snipped contritely, looking vaguely horrified at the thought. "I kicked his butt," he added with just the barest hint of a grin.
Dean smirked at the thought, but the grin dipped. "Then...?"
Sam's grin vanished as well, and then he looked old and tired again, and Dean hated that, really, really hated that 'cause Sam wasn't supposed to have ever looked old and tired. That was lame as hell. "I was reading Anna in the library, waiting for my teacher-"
Skinny brown-haired guy, Dean recalled with faint contempt.
"-And then before I knew what was happening, one of Jay's lackeys brought an Oxford's Dictionary down on my head," Sam muttered, and Dean was sort of stunned speechless to hear the mulish petulance in Sam's voice. Well, first, he was surprised that some nutcase had gotten the drop on his keen brother, but then he remembered that Sam sort of entered a different world when he was reading. He made a note to lecture Sam on his letting his defenses down before getting appropriately riled up.
"-He took you out with a book?"
Sam grimaced at Dean's simplified version. "I guess."
Dean sat back on his haunches, feeling sort of on the border of murderous and just faintly amused. But that mild amusement vanished when his eyes scoured his brother's sheared hair and the tear-softened eyes. "Then they did that," he murmured, jerking his head towards the damage. "While you were out for the count."
The lanky fourteen year old drew his legs into his chest. "Nah, he had to get his punches in, first." Sam fingered his jaw, the scowl deepening. "And by the time I came to again, my book was gone and Mr. Becket was shaking my shoulder. He took me to the nurse."
"Did you know they cut your hair?" Dean's voice was very soft and very calm and just proved that he was one really, really annoyed older brother.
Sam thought about lying, but decided that if he was going to divulge, it might as well be with Dean. Wasn't like Dad was going to be quite as understanding as his brother. "I heard snipping next to my ear, and I didn't get it then." He swept at the dark, choppy strands. "It was the first thing I felt when I could see straight... Y'know. It was lighter." A bitter little snicker escaped his throat. "Lacey called me a freak."
There was a moment of silence- Dean, thinking. That didn't mean anything good for Jay. Sam snatched the moment of silence for his fallen hair and snuck a glance at Dean.
Only to find himself face-full of fabric. That smelled like sweat and some sort of faint but robust oil. From the Impala, maybe? From the guns? And so very Dean, which may or may not have been the most comforting thing Sam would remember from his childhood. The smell of a hunter. The smell of Dean.
"G'roff, Deeeannn!" Sam groaned a complaint, flailing and trying to shove the older away from him. Dean didn't budge, but he felt his chest rumble with what Sam instantly placed as laughter. It warmed his entire soul, as stupid as that sounded. He could just feel it well up. "God, D'n, you're such a jerk-" And his scattering of colorful bruises stung and he missed his abundant hair but he knew that he would miss Dean's iron arms the most if his brother let go of him, so he made sure to keep the complaints minimal. Not that Dean would let him go anyway.
"Don't I know it, bitch." Dean crooned, digging his worn knuckles into the younger kid's fluffy head. "Your hair is so friggin' ridiculous, Sam. Now it's even more ridiculous. I can fix it, but it's like two in the morning. I'll fix it after you sleep." Sam squirmed and hollered and fought him like the geek he was, and Dean enjoyed every second of it. He was pretty sure Sam did too, even if he pouted beneath Dean's arm. "Deal?"
Sam sagged in defeat, grumbling. "Fine, now lemme go."
True to his word, Dean released his geeky (genius) kid and watched Sam the Snake slither beneath the covers. Without hesitating, he lay on his side as well and fluffed the pillow, adjusting Sam's head as effortlessly as he always had.
Yeah, he could fix this. Somehow, he always did, especially when it had to do with Sam.
It was a pain having to get ready for school in five hours. After their little heart to heart early that morning, Sam still looked pale and tired and not up to school. But against Dean's insistence that he feign sickness, Sam stubbornly showered and got ready anyway.
"Okay, kid." Dean examined the mop below him, brandishing scissors uncertainly. "Complain and I'll kick your ass, yeah?" He said this affectionately as he began to snip the jagged shocks of hair, humming something comforting and probably Zeppelin beneath his breath.
"Mess it up even more and I'll get you back," Sam threatened loosely as well, threading his bony, lengthy fingers together and staring off towards the windows. Dean smirked wanly, his mouth still feeling tight as he watched hazelnut locks spill to the motel floor. His jaw clenched again as he refocused on evening out the soft strands, tongue sticking out between his lips as the humming intensified.
"Aight, Sam. Take a look." He said cautiously after a few moments, tossing the blades aside on the table and swiveling Sam so that the kid faced the mirror. Sam blinked at his reflection, eyes traveling over the now even (more even, at least) hair on the sides, the untouched bangs- Man, he knew that Dean wouldn't cut those no matter how much he griped. The injuries had faded a little bit, and sure, he was sort of bitter, but those both took time. Fortunately, he had narrowly missed a black eye, but his jawline was a grotesque mix of red and an unattractive grape color, and he still buckled from where he'd gotten hit in the gut. And yeah, okay, he looked a little goofy; Dean was an amazing brother, but he didn't often cut hair- An attribute to how long Sam's hair could get. But it was going to get better.
The tentative, dimpled grin Dean received was like light. Literally, with the eyes and the smile and the little-boy look- Sam was a nuclear weapon in the making, he swore. "'S okay."
Which, in Sam language, meant that it was perfect.
"Okay? That's all I get? Okay? My efforts are so not getting enough appreciation, kiddo." Dean dug his fingers into Sam's head and wildly messed up the previously neat hair, leaving Sam shouting again but also laughing, and Dean realized, not for the first time- I love this kid.
When Sam finally managed to escape, they realized simultaneously that they were already pretty late, and Dean piled Sam into the car and hurried in himself and totally didn't kind of ruin the paint job of what Sam pointed out to be Jay's car when they arrived at the school. Then, well, he sort of hid the Impala away on the other side of the parking lot so Jay wouldn't get any ideas or lay a filthy finger on Baby. Sam had laughed the whole time.
He wasn't scared. Not at all. But if he could keep Baby out of the war, he would. That, and if Jay so much as breathed on the 'Pala, he would be eating a knuckle sandwich for lunch.
"Alright, Sam." He said gruffly, fingers warm and solid on his little brother's skinny shoulder as they walked in. "Chin up." High school was a cruel, cruel place, and it didn't take long for both Dean and Sam to encounter Lacey, who barred Becket's room with her hip cocked and her fuschia lips pursed. Sam examined the crystal-blue eyes and wondered what he had found pretty about her.
"You know, Sam," she said with mock sympathy, apparently oblivious to storm clouds gathering in Dean's already thunderous expression. "I hope you learned your lesson about talking to me. You're too much of a nerd for it to work out, you know that, right?" Sam just thought it was amusing that she'd finally gotten his name right.
"Sure, Lacey." He said hoarsely, but apparently she wasn't done.
"And I think you should thank Jay for the haircut, 'cause now you look a little less like the freak you are." Her index fingernail lazily drew a circle in the direction of Sam's head.
Here, Dean was about to violate his no-hitting-teenage-girls rule, but Sam interjected, his voice surprisingly chilly and in surprisingly a short time. The older's eyes flickered down to see heat brewing in the darkening hazel-green eyes, felt his heart skip a beat at how deadly Sam managed to make himself look in those few moments. Seriously, this kid-
"Dean cut my hair, not Jay."
At this, finally, Lacey looked up at Dean, who was fixing her with a blatantly scornful (and sort of prideful) look. "Y-You don't scare me, you know," her voice veiled with an aggressive amount of bravado. Dean knew this scenario well. "I have Jay, and I have an older brother, and he can kick your ass."
Sam's eyebrows lifted, and in an airy, crisp voice that sent chills down Dean's back, he said, "Well, then, Lacey. I just feel bad for you, because your brother apparently didn't raise you as well as mine raised me." And with that, he glanced up at Dean like he hadn't just emotionally sucker-punched him, smiled, and pushed past a stunned Lacey and into the room. "Oh, and for the record? Dean would make your brother wet his pants." Dean, suspended in time, stared numbly after his kid and decided that it was a good thing he'd tamed his tear ducts, or he would have been bawling on the floor in fetal position. He swallowed, just managing to spare Lacey a smirk before strutting off for his class, music in his head.
That's my kid, he cheered. That's m' boy, leaving people speechless.
And later that day, (after they painted Jay's car a color Dean creatively coined "a mix of cat sick and Paris Hilton's hair) their father came home to tell them that the hunt had been successful, the werewolf put down before it had had a chance to change anyone.
Also later that day, while Sam and Dean were packing, John inquired about Sam's hair.
"Sammy, did you get a haircut?" He wondered, ruffling the kid's hair as he watched the boys throw their belongings together.
"From the best," Sam chirped without hesitation, his latest conquest cradled underneath his arm and effectively named Jane Eyre. John sighed, recognizing "woman" trouble when he saw it, and nodded, missing Dean batting at his eyes on the other side of the room. These boys... Even in terms of women they were so wildly different. John made a face. Dean pursuits of course, were far more tangible, while Sam's were confined into words.
"And why are you so bruised up?" John continued, trapping and thumbing the side of Sam's face where the skin was rather discolored. Sam wriggled in his grip, which did sting a little bit, but soon relaxed and allowed for John's scrutiny. "Did someone at school-?" his angry but somehow unsurprised questioning was cut off, this time by Dean.
"Sam showed a couple bullies, that's all," he smirked, throwing his brother a wink before his dad looked up. "Stunned them speechless, in fact." John frowned but let it go, also recognizing when his sons had managed to make it over an obstacle without his help. He wasn't always going to be around, after all.
"Well, then. Good job." He nodded, tossing the words into the air. Sam caught them, looking surprised, before a smile spread along his young face.
"Yeah," he practically beamed, and John felt the walls he had so fiercely built around his heart start to crumble away, if only momentarily. His eyes smiled a bit even if his mouth didn't, and he turned back to his guns. He'd almost forgotten how warm it felt to make his boys smile. And that, that was plural. Boys. Because when Sam grinned, Dean was over there hiding a smile the size of Texas and thinking that his dad hadn't noticed.
John shook his head. Heck, he knew they were lying. He'd talked to the apathetic principal and the foul, piggy nurse as a follow-up, not to mention Mr. Becket, the teacher who looked like he might have been bowled over if John breathed too hard in his freakin' direction. And maybe he had sent Jay's CEO father a very... Unapologetic and passive-aggressive e-mail outlining some very specific and elaborate ways that he could, well, screw himself.
He shook his head, noticing from the corner of his eye that Dean and Sam were both struggling to push something into a bag and sighed, heading over to help them.
Well. While he was still around, he could take care of his boys. And when he wasn't there? Well, he knew Dean would take care of Sammy.
Just like he always had.