The days passed. Christmas for the Winchesters was spent eating chicken and dumplings, cramped together on Bobby's worn couch while the old hunter spouted curses as his football team miserably lost their final game of the season. No gifts were exchanged, at least not material possessions.

The weary father pours another cup of caffeine and made his way upstairs towards his sons' room. Silent, unnoticed, he leaned against the doorframe and smiled. His eldest was patiently teaching the younger how to properly shave.


"Now, you have to make sure that you use warm water to wet your face before putting the shaving cream on. It helps to soften up the hair to get the closest shave with the least nicks. With those dimples, you're gonna have a helluva time," he smirked, emerald eyes twinkling in the pale bathroom light. The youngest Winchester rolled his eyes and pursed his lips.

"If you're going to pick on me, I'll ask Bobby to show me. Hell, I'll just grow a beard!" Sam snapped.

"You grow a beard, and Dad will have your ass! You're lucky you haven't woken up with a buzz cut," Dean chided. To set the example, he moistened his face and lathered on the white foam. He gestured for Sam to follow suit. The boy-man begrudgingly did as instructed.

Dean expertly wielded the ultra sharp barber's razor. An antique by modern standards, it had been a gift from John and no other razor ever got half the results. He deftly skimmed away the lather, not a single cut on the handsome face. He rinsed, and then patted his face dry with the hand towel.

"Did you see how I did that? Move with the grain. If you go against it, yeah you'll get a closer cut, but you'll also get one righteous case of razor burn!"

Sam's hazel eyes flickered from the mirror to his brother. The man before him was the essence of beauty. Handsome was too weak a word to describe the stunning features. Sam could imagine Michelangelo cursing the marble that would become David for not being as exquisite as his brother. An unbearable urge to touch the smoothness of that face overcame him and before thinking, the back of his hand gently stroked the defined jaw line.

A suspicious hiss pierced through the silence as he reflexively flinched. Experience had taught that a hand to his face was rarely accompanied by gentleness. The distrustful expression on his chiseled face quickly softened as green eyes locked with hazel.

Seeing the apparent distress his touch had brought, Sam hastily pulled back his trembling hand. The texture of his brother's skin, of the satin drape covering the marble work of art, singed his fingertips. The all-too-brief contact had etched itself forever into his memory and on his heart.

Dean blinked. Once, twice…more so to clear his own mind of the oddly confusing and exhilarating sensations that Sam's touch had caused. He rapidly dismissed the feelings, writing the twinge of pleasure off as a consequence of not having a steady "study partner" for over a month. Focusing back on his little brother, the hurt look in the boy's eyes melted his heart. The poor kid just wanted to see what freshly shaved skin was supposed to feel like…here he was acting like he'd been stung by a bee or burnt with a cigarette. He grabbed the small, shaking hand and brought it once again to his cheek. Running it down the side of his face, along the jaw line, and under his chin, he smiled at the adoring light sparkling in the innocent eyes.

"See what I mean? If you go with the grain, it's smooth like a baby's butt! Now, you try." Letting go of the no-longer-short-pudgy fingers, he placed a razor, new and identical to his own, in the twelve-year-old's hand. The boy paled as he raised the sharp, glinting blade towards his face.

John watched the interaction silently. His heart swelled with pride and love. Sammy wasn't the rolley-polley little baby that laughed and cooed anymore. He was on the cusp of being a man. Dean…Dean had never really been a child, just a man in a smaller body. Always the protector, always the mentor, he had been the one to teach young Sam good behavior and conduct. Dean had been and would be the one to teach Sammy how to be a good, strong man.

With a sigh, John pushed himself away from the door and made his way to the room he'd been occupying. He began to pack his meager belongings. Once finished, he pulled a blank page from his journal and began to write. The decision he had been struggling with was finally made. Though he hated to admit it, Bobby was right. Dean was a better father to Sam than he could ever be.