Haircut
It is at a Day n' Night motel in Harrison, Nebraska when Dean decides that Sammy needs a haircut. The edges of the boy's chocolate brown hair tickle his eyes, and he keeps flipping his head to keep it from tangling in his eyelashes, which annoys Dean because he does it all the time and also because that's what girls do.
"C'mon Sammy, just sit still," he sighs at his 7 year old brother, who stubbornly continues to squirm around in his seat on the edge of the dusty motel bed. The cathode-ray TV blares a rerun of a sitcom whose name neither one of the boys can remember but they let play anyways because of the leading lady with blonde hair the color of straw and a smile that is full of white teeth that look like Chiclets.
She looks like Mom, Dean said to him when they came across the show for the first time, and Sammy nodded, fully accepting that as fact. Why wouldn't he? This was Dean, after all. Dean wouldn't lie.
In truth, Sammy still feels guilty that he doesn't remember what Mom looked like. Dad and Dean talk about her so infrequently, sometimes he wonders what happened to make her like some kind of ghost. He knows better than to ask Dean about it, though. Whenever he used to ask him where she was, his face would get all hard and he'd get mad. He learned pretty quickly not to talk about Mom unless Dean brings it up first.
"Dean," Sammy whines, leaning forward to play with the fraying edge of the duvet cover. "Don't cut it really short like you did last time."
"I won't, okay? Quit whining."
Armed with a rusty pair of scissors that he dug out of the bottom of his father's bag, Dean begins to trim the ends of his brother's hair. The brown strands flutter to the carpet floor and collects in piles as his almost-steady hand guides the steel scissors across. With minimal fidgeting, Sammy sits through the haircut without saying a word, which in a funny way makes Dean proud.
When he's done, he sets the scissors down on the bedside table and admires his work.
It's a bit uneven in the back, but at least it's no longer hanging down in Sammy's eyes. He lets a small, proud smile spread on his face. This one was definitely better than last time.
"All done, Sammy." Dean says at last, rising from the bed to return the scissors to his father's duffle bag.
Sammy leaps off the bed and makes a beeline for the motel bathroom. In the dim florescent light, he stands on his tip toes to get a better look at himself in the dirty mirror. His hazel eyes stare back at him through the grime. He liked his hair longer, but he doesn't know how to tell Dean that, so he stays quiet.
When he steps back out, he flicks the bathroom light off and pads back to the bed.
"Thanks." He mumbles and plops himself back down, trying to ignore how itchy the back of his neck is where the stray hairs poke through his shirt. His tired eyes stare unfocused at the motel door. It is almost two in the morning and Dad still hasn't come back. Sammy shifts again uneasily.
Dean notices his brother's discomfort and starts brushing the snippets of hair off his shoulders. Sammy frowns and twists away from his touch.
"Don't baby me, Dean! I can do it myself." he grumbles, shaking the hair off his shirt.
Dean rolls his eyes and pretends that his words don't sting a little.
"That's what a baby would say," He retorts, though his heart isn't in it.
"Shut up." Sammy murmurs bitterly and then turns back towards the door.
A silence drapes itself across the boys as they drift off into their own thoughts. The only sounds are those from the TV, which has moved on to a movie at this point. Sammy's eyes have not moved from the door in nearly an hour.
Some nights when Dad isn't around, he pretends that Mom is with them, taking care of them. He imagines her singing old Beatles songs to them late into the night. She kisses his forehead while smoothing down his long, unkempt hair. She smiles at them with her straw-blonde hair and Chiclet teeth.
"Where does Dad go?"
Sammy finally breaks the silence with this question and it is the first time he has ever asked it and Dean can feel his blood run cold. His father would be furious if Sammy found out what he did all day long.
"Don't ask me that." He responds firmly, refusing to meet his brother's inquisitive gaze.
Sammy sighs impatiently.
"When will he be back?" he tries again, hoping he can get something out of his older brother.
"I don't know Sam, okay? God…" He replies brusquely, face as hard as plastic, and a hurt silence settles over the pair.
The TV fills up the heavy air between them. It reminds Sam of the silences in the car, when Dad doesn't want to talk and Dean is mad, so he sits in the back of the car and plays with his army men as quietly as possible.
"He's a salesman." Dean says finally, deciding to lie to his little brother. It's the only mercy that he can give him.
Judging by brevity of Dean's response, Sam realizes he has gotten this much out of his brother and even though his answer doesn't make much sense, he decides not to push it.
"Okay." He says so quietly that Dean barely catches it.
Without another word to Dean, Sam pulls back the covers and burrows in. He curls up into himself.
"Night Dean." He whispers. Dean glances over at the young boy curled up beside him and in spite of the worry brewing in his heart, he manages a small smile.
"Night Sammy."