For Your Own Good

Summary: "Don't worry, Dean. I'll be a good little soldier and do everything Dad says. Promise." Sam doesn't know how right he is.

Sam is sixteen. Dean is twenty.

A/N: I swear to Chuck, I have nothing to do with John's choices in this chapter.

Chapter Five

It had always been somewhat of a relief when John took off to kill monsters with Caleb or Pastor Jim or whatever hunter with a lead he'd bumped into, leaving Sam to his own devices. Especially when Dean was left behind as well and they were able to skive off of training together and watch movies or go grab milkshakes or burgers or drive aimlessly for no reason because Dean just always wants to be driving the Impala and Sam is always willing to do what Dean wants if it means not doing what John wants.

Nowadays, these are the only times Sam feels like he can breathe.

It isn't as good as it used to be. Dean doesn't understand why Sam keeps refusing to skip training so that they can hang out, and Sam can't explain that he's incapable of ignoring John's standing orders to keep up with his training schedule (which seems to get more comprehensive and time consuming every week).

So Dean's feelings keep getting hurt and when that happens Dean likes to pretend that the only feeling he has is anger, so Sam ends up doing a lot of jogging or studying a lot of Latin or practising with whatever weapon John has decided he needs to work on while Dean stomps around loudly and obnoxiously in the background, making nasty comments and trying to pick a fight to get Sam to pay him attention.

It sucks. Upsetting Dean makes Sam upset, and guilty, and angry at John and then sometimes at Dean for being angry at Sam when he should be angry at John and then at himself for being angry at Dean when he should be angry at John. But at least John can't spot him reading a book or writing an essay or just trying to watch TV and rest (because he's constantly exhausted these days and sometimes he can't even find the energy to think) and order him to do something more productive, like cleaning knives or push-ups.

Time keeps rolling along and Sam... Sam feels like he's losing himself. He doesn't stop trying to find ways to drop Dean hints but he does stop expecting Dean to figure them out. He does what John tells him to do and tries to keep up with his schoolwork but sometimes he falls asleep on top of his textbooks and John keeps pulling him out of schools so they can skip town and sometimes he forgets to enrol Sam in a new one for an extra week or so, until Dean speaks up to remind him (because the last time Sam tried John had been busy and annoyed and had snapped at Sam to shut up about school).

Sam's straight A's begin to be marked with minus signs, before turning into B's, starting to slide towards C's, but John has never cared to keep track of Sam's grades. He praises Sam's new ability to run a mile in under seven minutes, his developing knife skills and strengthening aim. He beams when Sam almost takes down Dean one day while sparring and tells Dean he's going to need to up his game. He claps Sam on the back and says 'good job' and tells him that he's really proud of the effort Sam has been making, as if he's forgotten about the spell. As if Sam is doing all this because he wants to and not because he has to.

Sometimes, despite himself, Sam feels a warm glow of pride. It's nice when his father looks at him with something other than disappointment. It's satisfying when he beats his best time. It's thrilling to put his new skills to the test and take down a monster three times his size.

This must be what it feels like to be Dean.

Most of the time, though, Sam simply simmers with rage. He's a pot poised to boil over. A balloon stretched to bursting. A grenade with no pin, about to explode. All the arguments he hasn't been allowed to make, every snarky comment he's been forced to swallow, it's all stuffed down inside him, desperate to escape, filling him up and forcing him apart at the seams. He feels like, at any moment, he could split open and let out a flood of blood and guts and sharp angry words.

As much as he can, Sam tries to stay out of John's sight, especially when Dean isn't around to act as somewhat of a shield. Which is why his stomach sinks when he returns from a day of school (spent feverishly trying to catch up on several late assignments) and John is sitting at the kitchen table, bent over several large battered leather-bound tomes, and Dean is no where to be seen.

Sam closes the door behind him as quietly as he can. Hoping not to draw his father's attention, he slinks silently past. He still has an entire essay to write for history class tomorrow and he'd been planning on getting started before heading out for his daily run.

Sam is almost at the doorway to the bedroom he's sharing with Dean when John speaks, without looking up.

"Put your things away and come help me with this."

The spell smothers Sam's sigh.

"Yes, sir."

Sullenly, he drops his backpack on the floor by his bed and returns to the kitchen, sliding into the seat furthest from his father. "Where's Dean?" he asks.

John turns a page. "I sent him for supplies."

'Supplies' could mean anything from a case of beer to an obscure magical talisman only available in a far-off antique store. Dean could be gone for hours.

"What are we looking for?" Sam pulls one of the books closer and flips it open, shoving his hair out of this face.

"Something that strikes on a full moon and likes virgins."

They read in silence. John works his way through a six-pack. Sam thinks, despairingly, of the homework in his bag. He'll have to stay up half the night if he wants to make a dent in it. At least John seems to have decided that research is more important than physical training tonight. Unless he plans on sending Sam out later. There's still time before it gets dark.

"This could be something." Sam turns his book around for John to see.

John glances over. "No, I already ruled that out."

Disappointed, Sam turns the book back, leaning over it again. His hair falls in his eyes and he brushes it aside impatiently. At this rate, there's no way he'll be able to finish that essay. Maybe he could ask for an extension, think up some excuse.

Sam reads another page before a prickling sensation in his spine makes him look up. John is staring at him, a strange look on his face.

"What?" Sam blurts out, shrinking back a little in his seat.

Another order is coming. Another addition to his already-packed training schedule or maybe instructions to keep reading until he comes up with an answer, whether it's in these books or not. If he's lucky, John will just tell him to go grab dinner.

"Stay there," John says. He sets down his beer and rises to his feet.

A flutter of nerves quivers in Sam's stomach. John disappears into his bedroom. Straining his ears, Sam hears the zzzz of the zip on John's duffel bag and the faint sound of rummaging, things being moved around. What is he looking for? Another book? More research material?

John reappears with something in his hand, too small to be a book. He doesn't return to his side of the table. Instead, he comes to stand behind Sam.

"What are you doing?" Sam asks, twisting in his seat.

"Turn around," John says. "Sit back and stay still."

Of course, Sam obeys, with an automatic 'yes, sir'. He swivels around to face the table again. His spine straightens against the back of the battered kitchen chair. His arms settle on the armrests, fingers curling over the rounded wooden edges. He sits still and stiff, staring straight ahead. The fluttering anxiety in his stomach spreads to his chest and his pulse does an uncomfortably frantic dance.

"What are you doing?" Sam asks again. He hates how small his voice sounds; tentative and meek. Helpless.

John's palm presses against the back of Sam's head, tilting it forward until his chin almost touches his chest.

Sam sucks in a shaky breath. His ears start to ring, a buzzing hum of growing panic. He can't stand being trapped in his own body like this. He wants to move. He needs to move.. He wishes he could look over his shoulder, to see what his father is up to behind his back. He wishes he could do anything other than sit in this chair, paralysed and choking on claustrophobia inside his own skin. Sam feels like a doll, being played with and posed by a dispassionate owner.

"It's about time you had a proper haircut," John says.

Sam thinks that his heart actually stops. He definitely stops breathing. Something touches the nape of his neck and slides upwards and he realises, with a sudden jolt of horror, that the buzzing isn't only in his ears. It's coming from John's electric hair clippers and it gets louder as the blades chew through his hair.

"Long hair isn't practical on a hunter," John lectures, matter-of-fact. "It's a liability. A monster could get hold of it, or it could get in your eyes at the wrong moment."

The clippers keep going, higher and higher, creeping closer and closer to the top of Sam's head, before finally pulling away, only to return to the nape of his neck to carve another stripe.

John tips Sam's head a little to the left, then to the right. Tufts of brown hair tumble over Sam's shoulders and drop to the floor. Sam stares at it, dumbfounded. He can't believe it.

"Dean cuts my hair," he says, stupidly.

John doesn't bother to reply to this. His breath is hot against the freshly-bare back of Sam's head as he leans closer and guides the clippers around Sam's ear. Strands of hair slide softly past Sam's cheek, falling like tears.

This isn't happening.

None of this is happening. It's all just a bad dream. A nightmare. None of this is real.

Sam closes his eyes and hides in the darkness behind his eyelids. He's somewhere else, anywhere else, and none of this is happening.

John steps back, taking the clippers away. The buzz stops and, for a moment, Sam thinks, wildly, that he's reconsidering. Realising that he's gone too far. Then there's a clicking sound, a new guard being snapped into place, and John's fingers curl under Sam's chin, lifting his head. The buzzing returns.

Sam breathes slowly. In and out. In and out. This isn't happening but he feels the clippers press against his forehead, cold against his skin. Firm and final. He feels them begin to move. There's an all-too-brief tug of resistance before the blades slice through his bangs and he feels hair spill down his face, tickling his skin on the way to the floor. This isn't real but he feels the vibration of the clippers as they continue their glide over the top of his head . He feels John's ruthless determination and he feels the chill that spreads across his scalp, strip by strip, in the razor's unforgiving wake.

He feels pieces of himself falling away.

John is whittling him, cutting off the parts he doesn't approve of, that he deems unimportant. The things that make Sam Sam. John is carving him into something else. Something new.

John's hands move with swift practised precision and soon – so soon it really can't be real, it can't be done so fast, it can't be, it can't be – the buzzing stops. The silence is loud without it. Sam opens his eyes and watches as the clippers are set down on the table beside the book he'd been reading. There are dark scraps of hair lying limply on the open pages. John's hands brush off Sam's shoulders and a few more join them.

"There." There's a smile in John's voice. Maybe a smirk. He sounds pleased with himself, satisfied by his handiwork. "Go have a look, see what you think."

Mechanically, Sam rises to his feet. He steps over the fluffy spread of hair – fuck, there's so much of it - that surrounds his chair and walks on legs that feel strangely numb. He's adrift. Detached from his own body. He moves across the room without feeling the floor beneath him and enters the small bathroom. He flips on the light with fingers that may as well belong to someone else, steps up to the vanity, and looks into the mirror.

The person that looks back at him has large eyes, wide with bewildered astonishment. Their face is pale, tired, and shocked. Their ears seem to stick out a little but maybe that's just because their hair is short. Really short.

Feeling dazed, Sam raises a hand.

So does the person in the mirror.

Slowly, Sam runs his hand up the back of his neck, over the top of his head. The person in the mirror copies him. His palm skates over prickly fuzz instead of the mess of curls he's searching for.

"A crew cut is much more sensible for a hunter," John says, remorselessly, from the doorway.

"Yes, sir," Sam hears himself say. The mouth of the person in the mirror moves along with the words but it can't really be him. It doesn't look like him.

John actually grins. Like he truly believes that Sam likes the haircut. Or like he enjoys knowing that Sam doesn't. Sam can't tell which.

John steps into the bathroom and stands behind Sam, taking up most of the remaining space. He runs his own hand over Sam's freshly shorn head, a move that could be meant as affection but feels more like a mocking taunt. A needless reminder of the power he wields.

They both stare at Sam's new reflection; Sam with a burgeoning sense of devastation. John with an air of thoughtful assessment, like he's wondering what other changes he should make.

In the end he nods approvingly.

"You're starting to look like a real Winchester now."

To Be Continued...

A/N: Reviews get to punch John, really, really hard, right in the face.