Old Thingstones, for angstslashhope (gen, PG-13)
Title: Old Thingstones
Author: eloise_bright / Patti Smith
Recipient: angstslashhope
Rating: PG-13
Author's Notes: 4480 words. angstslashhope requested: 1. Anything focused on the fact that John was caring for an infant/young children in his early hunting years; 2. Either of the boys going through growing-up milestones (learning to talk/walk/pee standing up/whatever!) and 3. Family domesticity. She gets all three. Title is taken from “The Two Brothers” by Hans Christian Anderson. yasminke worked beta magic and made this story so much better.
Summary: Sammy needs a haircut.
~
“Dad.”
Dean’s voice is soft, tentative. That’s hardly a surprise, considering the way John snapped at him an hour ago when Dean had first interrupted his research.
John marks his place in the text with a little stick figure-decorated scrap of paper he finds on the table. One of Dean’s masterpieces, he guesses. He closes his journal and rolls his head back and around, feeling every one of his thirty-two years in the click and creak of his neck and shoulders.
Dean moves closer, the faint odor of gun oil just detectable under the less familiar scent of freshly-scrubbed boy. Dean’s skin is pink-tinged from almost-too-hot bathwater, and his still-damp hair sticks out in odd little tufts and spikes.
“Dad,” Dean tries again softly, and he stops a few feet from the table, stares down at his bare feet like he’s willing them to move of their own accord. John sees that his pyjama pants are too short, the frayed cuffs not quite reaching down to Dean’s ankles. He can’t remember the last time he bought the boys clothes.
“Hey.” John makes his own voice gentle, matches Dean’s tone, letting the boy know it’s okay to approach him, he won’t bite. This time. He sighs, and pushes the chair back from the table, putting space between him and the books. He leans forward, angling his body towards Dean, resting his elbows on his knees. “Sorry, son. Time got away from me, I guess.” It’s not much of an excuse, really.
Dean steps closer and rests the heel of his hand on the edge of the table next to him, his fingers unconsciously drumming a hesitant rhythm. It’s not like Dean to be nervous. John reaches out, covers the back of Dean’s hand with his own, and the boy flinches a little.
“You got a problem?” He figures that Dean wouldn’t be out here otherwise. Or be so goddamn twitchy. Jesus.
“Dean.” Firm tone. Dean responds instantly, his shoulders straightening, the fluttering fingers stilling. “Well?”
“It’s Sammy.” Dean doesn’t fidget any more, but he doesn’t meet John’s eyes either.
“What about Sammy?” It can’t be anything too terrible; otherwise Dean would have said something earlier. Then he remembers that Dean did try and he yelled at the boy. He sighs softly. “He’s okay, right?”
“Yes, sir.” Dean nods slowly. “It’s just that - well, you know - just-” And he starts in with the fidgeting again, shifting from one foot to the other.
“Spit it out, son,” John orders. He can’t bear to have Dean dancing round the issue like this.
Dean swallows briefly and takes a shaky breath, like he’s bracing himself. Then -
“I-think-Sammy-kinda-maybe-needs-a-haircut.” A garbled breathless rush, then Dean comes to an abrupt halt, holding his breath in anticipation of the response.
John does his best to stifle a grin when he sees the stricken look in his son’s eyes. “Something in particular making you think that?”
And then Dean’s doing that goddamn foot shuffle again, and John grips his arm, forces him into sudden stillness. “Dean.”
There’s a splotch of foam just behind Dean’s ear, and John reaches up, rubs his hand over the back of the boy’s head. The hair there is soapy-slick, his fingertips come away slippery with half-rinsed shampoo.
“You missed a spot,” John says wryly. There’s no shower attachment in the tub, Dean had most likely dunked his head under the bathwater and rinsed it off under the faucet. He hadn’t risked calling for help, anyway.
Dean’s hair has grown out, the ends sun-bleached to dark-gold, curling over the nape of his neck in damp cowlicks. Looks like Sammy’s not the only one who kinda maybe needs a haircut.
John stands up, puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder and steers him towards the tiny bathroom. Dean just moves along with him, and John feels the warmth of his son’s skin through the worn fabric, his fingers find loose threads that have strayed from an ancient, frayed seam. They’re gonna have to hit Sears pretty soon.
The bathroom looks like a war zone. Which isn’t that surprising, considering Sammy’s distinct lack of enthusiasm for the whole bath time routine. John remembers a baby who splashed and gurgled and cooed when Mary dribbled cupped handfuls of water over his dark curls. He wonders exactly when that sweet smiling baby boy became a screaming, bawling banshee with an allergy to soap.
There’s foam and water everywhere-floor, tiles-the goddamn light fixtures, for Christ’s sake.
“Tidal wave hit, son?” he asks, nonchalantly.
“Sammy made a run for it,” Dean answers, then shrugs, his shoulder blade sharp under the flat of John’s palm.
John just nods and picks a path to the tub, carefully avoiding the sodden towels, discarded clothing and lethal patches of dissolving foam that make the floor skating-rink slick. He moves his hand down to Dean’s arm and the kid trails beside him obediently, kneels at the edge of the tub when John presses down on his shoulder.
“Lean forward,” he instructs, and Dean obeys, holds onto the edge and leans over, tipping his head down. There’s an old plastic juice cup next to the faucet, the red plastic faded to almost pink, a cracked worn-away picture of what looks to be a three-legged Scooby Doo on the side. Used to be Dean’s, John thinks, like most things that Sam has. He tips out whatever potion Sam was mixing, then runs the water until it’s warm and fills the cup. He pours it over the back of Dean’s head, sluicing the residual soap from the boy’s hair with his hand. Dean grips the edge of the bathtub tight and keeps his head down.
“So what makes you think Sammy needs a haircut?” John fills the cup and rinses again.
Dean lifts a hand to rub at his eyes as the soap trail runs from behind his ears down his cheeks. Then spits a mouthful of soapy water into the tub. “Dad.” There’s no censure in his tone.
“Oh - right.” John hands him a washcloth and Dean swipes it roughly across his face. “Sorry.”
“S’alright.” Dean looks up at him, eyes red-rimmed from the rinsed-out suds.
Mary had always used baby shampoo, even after Dean wasn’t a baby any more. She’d been totally taken in by the ‘no more tears’ tagline. John looks over to the shelf and sees the shampoo there, some cheap, generic brand, whatever was on sale last time they shopped.
He tugs a hand through Dean’s hair, feels it squeak between his fingers and Dean jerks in silent protest. He lifts a worn towel from the rail and hands it to his son; lets Dean wipe his eyes and mouth. “That better?”
Dean nods. It’s not like he’s not going to say ‘no’, because Dean doesn’t do that. He used to before, John thinks: over bedtimes and broccoli and brushing his teeth and a thousand and one other tiny rebellions that don’t seem important any more.
He takes the towel back and wraps it around Dean’s head, rubbing vigorously. “So. Sammy? About this haircut?”
Dean squirms away from him. “Dad, my ears. Dude.” The kid’s ears are kinda pink.
“Sorry.” He settles himself on the toilet seat, pulls Dean to him and rubs the towel over the back of the boy’s head in a slightly less frenetic manner. Dean relaxes a little, leans back against John’s knees and drops his chin onto his chest. John sees the ridged knobs and curves of the small spine pushing against the soft fabric of his pyjama top. He could count the bones, he thinks.
“Me and Sammy went to the store today.”
“Mmm.” John makes his grunt noncommittal, just enough to keep Dean talking.
“And there was this lady there.” Dean drawls the word ‘lady’ like it’s some kind of horribly contagious disease.
“That must have been a shock, finding a lady in a store.” John imitates Dean’s inflection exactly.
“Daad.” This time John can hear the eye-roll in his son’s tone.
“What?” John bites his lip, tries to hide the amusement in his own voice. Fails miserably. “I’m just saying.”
“She thought Sammy was a girl.” Dean spits that out, his voice low, full of righteous anger and scornful indignation and somewhere underneath it all, forlorn distress.
“Ah.” John gets it then. “Because of his hair, right?”
Dean nods. “Stupid old witch.” He aims a kick at the floor, his toe shifting a sodden towel with a wet slap.
“Watch it, buddy.”
“I said witch,” Dean sulks, and his foot comes down in a petulant stamp, a faint echo of the epic tantrums of his toddler days.
John smacks his palm lightly against Dean’s leg. “And I said ‘watch it’.” He rubs the sting out of the swat, though, as Dean mumbles an unwilling apology.
“So, you think we need to give him a haircut?” To be honest, John’s not keen. Sammy hates getting his hair combed, never mind cut. The very idea of approaching the squirming four-year-old with scissors fills John with an unnameable dread.
“Not you, Dad.” Dean doesn’t make much effort to hide the skepticism in his tone. John doesn’t blame him; Dean’s had first-hand experience of his father’s barbering skills.
“You planning on taking up hairdressing, son?” A grin tugs at the corners of his mouth when he sees the horror in Dean’s expression.
“Dad.” An exasperated sigh, but not enough insolence to earn him a ‘watch your tone’. Dean knows the limits: he’s a fast learner. “We could go to a real barber. There’s one on the way to the park, on the corner of East Johnson. ”
Dean knows this because he takes Sammy to the park every day. John went there with them, once, when they first moved in, to check it out, make sure it was safe. He hasn’t been back since.
He runs his hand over Dean’s hair again, only faintly damp now, then pats him on the back. “We’re done.” He releases the kid and Dean shuffles forward, bends to pick up the towel.
“You brush your teeth already?”
“Uh huh.” Dean wrings the washcloth out over the tub, hangs it over the radiator. Picking up after himself, John realizes.
“Dean.” He makes his son’s name a command for attention and Dean looks up then, his face open and easy. John rubs his hand over his own face. “You should go to bed, son.”
“I will.” Dean doesn’t stop though, now he’s folding the towel that John used to dry his hair.
“Leave it.” John has to put his hand onto Dean’s arm before the kid actually stops. “Dean. I can pick up.”
Dean’s eyes crinkle in confusion. “Uh - right.” He wavers for a moment, like he’s not sure what he should do.
“Bed, son.” John helps him out with a gentle shove in the direction of the door, and once he’s started him on the way, Dean just keeps on going.
Dean’s almost asleep by the time John finishes up in the bathroom. He’s curled in the bed nearest the window; John can just make out the thin strip of salt laid along the sill, pale yellow in the sodium glare of the street light. Sammy is snoring faintly in the other bed, the blankets kicked down and wound around his feet in intricate knots. John bends to untangle them and Dean shifts at the sound; turns his head, instantly aware.
“He’ll just kick them off again. S’too hot.” He says it wearily; with a level of exhaustion in the too-hoarse croak that doesn’t belong in a child’s voice.
John nods, holds the blanket against his chest, twisting it through his hands. “’Bout time you were asleep, son,” he orders softly, and Dean’s eyes close again, ridiculously long lashes fluttering onto flushed cheeks. He looks younger, smaller somehow, the tiny creases at the edges of his eyes smoothing out as his face slackens, softening in sleep to resemble the little boy that John remembers he once had.
*~*~*~*
“Daddy.”
Sammy’s voice is an insistent whine. Kid was up at the crack of dawn, looking for Fruit Loops or Lucky Charms, or some other damn cereal drenched in enough sugar to pay a dentist’s country club fees for several decades. All he could find was Cheerios, sadly lacking in the apparently vital sugar-coating, and Sam had pitched a fit right in the middle of the kitchen floor.
Dean had arrived in the kitchen a few moments after the first agonizing wail of distress, dragged a slightly wobbly kitchen chair over to the cupboard and climbed up to retrieve a bag of mini marshmallows from behind the Junior Tylenol. He sprinkled them over the Cheerios with an ease borne of weary familiarity.
“Homemade Lucky Charms,” he’d whispered, as the bawling had ceased almost instantly, tear-tracks miraculously halting mid-cheek.
“Deean.” This time it’s a longer drawn-out whine, well-practiced by the sound of it, accompanied by the flat slap of Sammy’s sneakered feet as they drag along the pavement.
“You’re goin’ too fast, my legs are tired.” Dean’s footsteps halt behind him and John turns, sees Sammy’s brows drawn down, his bottom lip jutting out in sullen protest.
“Boys.” Voice tight, command in his tone. “Get a move on.” He aims a look at Dean and the boy nods, takes Sam’s hand, pulling him along.
“Come on, squirt. You gotta pick up the pace. You wanna go to the park, right?” That’s the deal Sammy struck. He gets a haircut, he gets park time. John marvels at the negotiation skills of his four-year-old. Kid could give a lawyer a run for his money.
“But I’m hun-gry.” There’s a world of yearning in those two syllables, and John sighs inwardly. A sugar high never lasted very long with Sammy. “You got candy, Dean?”
Dean just tugs at Sam’s hand and purposely avoids John’s eye. If possible, Dean’s sugar habit is worse than Sam’s; the kid has the stuff stashed all over the apartment. Every time they go to the store, John finds surreptitious packs of Tootsie Rolls and M&Ms tucked under the cans of soups and economy-sized bags of table salt. He lets it go, pays for it without mentioning it, because God knows the boys don’t get many treats. He’s under no illusion; figures if he wasn’t paying for it, Dean would be opting for the five finger discount.
“Sammy.” John puts a little stern into his tone. “You get candy after the haircut, okay?” He looks at Sam, but it’s Dean he’s talking to. “Okay?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean answers and he shakes Sammy’s shoulder in gentle encouragement.
“Yes, sir.” Sammy’s obedient declaration echoes Dean’s intonation perfectly.
Another block and they’re at the barber shop, right where Dean said, at the intersection of East Johnson and Beardsley. It’s not a great neighborhood, boarded-up windows and graffiti-scrawled walls, but it’s only one step down from where they’re renting right now, that tiny one-bedroom furnace of an apartment that he can barely afford.
The barber shop has no name, no apparent street number. It just stands there, in a small standalone brick building, as if it’s been there forever. There’s not even a pole, just one side of the door frame decorated in candy cane stripes, the paint chipped and flaking.
It looks old, the kind of old that John remembers seemed old when he was a kid, and he glances at the window, half-expecting to see evidence of the barber’s former trade, an amputated leg alongside a cut-throat razor. He’s not sure if he’s relieved or a little disappointed when he finds the window lacking in such gory details.
There’s a soft ding as he opens the door onto a scene from his own childhood. The place is tiny - two chairs, and four waiting, and that’s it. The ceiling’s low enough that he could knock his head on the light fixture, and there’s a magazine rack behind the chairs, back copies of Sport Magazine and Classic Car out front, with Playboy tucked discreetly behind.
It’s the smell, though, that chases back the years, the rich heaviness of ancient tobacco-soaked vinyl mingling with the sweet scent of Vitalis. It’s the smell of once-a-month Saturday mornings with his father, escaping into a dark shadowy haven where his father smoked cigars and bitched about the Indians or the Tigers, and John got his hair cut. He has vague memories of the barbers, two elderly brothers, long past the point of ever needing a haircut themselves, who argued about sports, politics and women. In that descending order of importance.
He remembers the sharp bee sting of the clippers against his ear when once he turned his head too quick, and the antiseptic which burned almost worse than the cut. He also remembers the red and white swirled lollipop he’d gotten as a reward for not bawling, and even now, when he cuts himself shaving, he can sometimes taste creamy sweet vanilla.
There’s a jar on the counter filled with lollipops, and it’s the first thing Sammy notices when the boys tumble in behind him, their chatter bright and sharp as the morning sunshine that follows them into the interior of the shop, golden rays setting the dust motes alight in the still air.
“Dean! They got those swirly ones here, can we get one? You got quarters, right?”
Sam’s voice is high-pitched, too loud for this quiet sanctuary. John turns to hush him, but Dean’s already got his hand over Sam’s mouth, shaking his head in warning.
“Keep it down, Sammy. You know what Dad said: haircut, then candy.” Dean’s voice is an exaggerated whisper.
“But they’re not candy, they’re lollipops.” John suppresses an unwilling smile at Sam’s inscrutable logic.
The barber looks over at the boys and John sees a hint of a smile playing over his lips. He breathes a silent sigh of relief and wonders if the poor guy knows what the hell he’s in for.
The shop’s busy; both chairs occupied and two waiting. John nods to Dean, and he hustles Sammy over to the waiting chairs. The boys are small enough that they both fit onto one chair, Dean folding himself so that Sammy can squeeze in beside him. Sam’s little legs dangle free, not yet long enough to reach the ground. He swings them intently, his rubber-capped toe meeting Dean’s calf muscle regularly enough to leave bruises.
John settles into the other chair and taps Sammy’s knee lightly. “Go easy there, son.”
Sam’s leg stills and he cranes his neck, trying to look at the copy of Classic Car that Dean’s snagged from the rack. John’s just relieved it’s not Playboy. He’s not ready to have that particular conversation just yet. Maybe not ever.
He closes his eyes, lulled by the steady hum of the clippers and the hiss of whispered confidences shared between his sons. Sammy asks Dean if this is the same as the library, because they have to be quiet there, and Dean tells him to hush up and ‘take a look at the sweet little ass on that’. John jerks to full consciousness at his words, expecting to see Dean with a contraband Playboy, but he’s still got the Classic Car open, drooling over a ‘67 Mustang. He shakes his head half in relief, half in disbelief at the blasphemy, and Dean just shoots a grin at him over the top of the magazine. Smartass.
The barber is finishing up with the guy who was waiting before them, tightening an already regulation-short crewcut. Guy could be Corps, he looks about the right age, home on leave maybe. John remembers his last visit to his childhood barbershop, just before shipping out to Da Nang. On his own, that time; the sting of his father’s anger aching deeper than the darkening bruise laid across the edge of his jaw. He’d been too young and stubborn then to realize that it wasn’t disappointment, but terror that had controlled his father’s temper.
“Okay, sir.” The barber nods to John, and both boys straighten in the seat, shoulders bumping as they square them.
Dean goes first, without argument, without fuss; he just climbs up into the huge vinyl chair obediently. John feels a tiny bubble of pride swell in his chest. Dean looks suddenly very small, the huge black cloak engulfing him, wrapped tight around the back of his neck. Sammy shuffles a little closer then, and John feels a hot, pudgy little hand curling into his own.
“Does it hurt?” Sammy whispers, blinking up at him from under his too-long bangs.
John shakes his head and wraps his arm around the kid’s shoulders. “Not a bit. You just watch Dean, son.”
The barber threads a comb through Dean’s hair, trimming the sun-bleached tips so that they fall away in little golden clots. The sheared hair looks even lighter against the black cloak, almost as blonde as Mary’s, John thinks. The barber pushes Dean’s head forward, works the clippers up the back of his head, and John sees the red line where sunburn and freckles meet the newly exposed pale nape. There’s a layer of peeling skin that suggests it must have been hurting like hell, but he doesn’t remember Dean complaining.
“See,” John says to Sammy, and the little boy cuddles in tighter to his hip. “Dean’s not scared.”
Dean looks up from where his head is bent and catches Sam’s eye in the mirror. Then he slides his hand out from under the cloak and gives his little brother a thumbs-up and his best cocky grin.
The barber adjusts the angle of Dean’s head and goes to work with the clippers, rising evenly from smooth tight edges to just enough on top to comb down. When he finishes, there’s a faint halo shimmering around the crown, the last of the summer still shining in the ends. The barber slicks the top into place, and Dean looks at John in the mirror and smiles broadly. John smiles back, trying to remember exactly when Dean’s front teeth grew in.
“All done, kiddo.” John gives Sammy’s shoulders a reassuring squeeze. “Didn’t hurt at all, right, Dean?”
“No, sir.” Dean hops down from the chair, and shakes his head, grinning even wider when the barber offers him the pick of the candy jar. Dean chooses a red and white swirled Lifesaver pop and unwraps it eagerly.
“Okay, Sammy. Your turn.” John gives the boy a gentle shove. Sammy doesn’t move, just hunches forward in the chair, his lower lip trembling ominously.
“Duntwanna.” It’s not so much a word, more an unarticulated gurgle.
“Sam.” Firm tone, just like he uses with Dean. Except it doesn’t work with Sammy. Sam drops his chin down onto his chest, and John can’t see his eyes under those damn bangs, but from the hitched breathing and choked-back sobs it’s clear he’s about to start bawling.
There’s a line waiting now, the three other chairs taken and two more standing, and John feels the prickle of sweat breaking over the back of his neck as Sammy’s strangled gasps become more audible. He’s winding himself up for a full-blown tantrum.
“Settle down, Sammy. You’re getting a haircut and that’s all there is to it.” Yeah, that’ll work.
Sam takes a huge, shuddering breath, sucking in enough oxygen for the first earsplitting howl. John is just about to tuck him under his arm and haul his ass out of the shop, when Dean crouches down low in front of his little brother.
“Hey, squirt. Can’t have stupid old witc-” he glances up at John “-ladies calling us girls, right?”
The hitched sobbing pauses momentarily, then there’s a hiccup, followed by a damp-sounding sniff. Sam shakes his head, shaggy curls bouncing at the movement. He wipes a snail-trail of snot onto his cuff. “Nuh-uh.”
“Dude.” Dean smacks him lightly on the shoulder, and holds out the lollipop, looking up at John for permission. John sighs and nods.
“Here ya go, Sammy.” The transformation is magical. Sam sticks the candy into his mouth, then hops off the chair and slips his other hand into Dean’s. Dean leads him over to the barber’s chair, helps him to climb up and hovers patiently next to the chair as the barber starts in on Sammy’s mop.
“Like Dean’s, like Dean’s.” John can just make out Sam’s high-pitched insistence over the buzz of the clippers.
The barber works slower than with Dean, shearing the curls, sending them tumbling to the floor, dark mixing with the pale gold leavings of Dean’s haircut. They’re Mary’s boys, both of them, gold for Dean and curls for Sammy. John thinks of the baby books she kept for them both, the lock of hair taped next to the Polaroid of Dean’s first haircut. The spaces in Sammy’s burned-up book saved for first tooth, first step, first haircut. Milestones that have come and gone unrecorded.
Sammy is sitting reasonably still, watching the barber’s progress in the mirror, the lollipop tucked in his bulging cheek. Dean is talking quietly to him, John can’t make him out over the hum of the clippers, but whatever he says, it’s enough to make Sammy smile so wide he drools pink saliva down his chin.
Then it’s done, and Mary’s baby boy is gone, leaving a little soldier in his place. Sam turns his head in wonder, as if he’s just rediscovered the use of his eyes. He’s rewarded with his choice of lollipop, and he shoves his hand deep into the candy jar, roots around until he finds a Tootsie Pop. Dean’s favorite.
“Daddy.” Sammy jumps down from the chair and skids to a halt in front of him, turning his head from side to side. “See?”
“Good job, Sammy,” John says, and he nods his approval to Dean. The boy flushes, the tips of his ears reddening at the unspoken appreciation. It makes John wonder how long it’s been since he told Dean good job, or well done, or even just thank you. He’s pretty sure Dean already knows that, though. The kid’s good at figuring that kind of stuff out. He gets enough practice, anyway.
“Your turn, Daddy.” Sammy is kneeling on the seat next to him, reaching up to tug at the back of John’s hair. He’s not particularly gentle.
“You think?”
Both boys nod decisively and John figures he could probably do with a trim. He settles himself in the barber’s chair, lifts his chin for the cloak to wrap around his neck.
The barber smiles and nods over to the boys in the mirror. “Good soldiers.”
John looks over at his boys. They’re sitting side by side, heads bent together, as Sammy solemnly hands the lollipop to his brother. John swallows, and his throat is tight and hot, his breath catching in his chest.
“Yeah,” he says, “They are.”
Author: eloise_bright / Patti Smith
Recipient: angstslashhope
Rating: PG-13
Author's Notes: 4480 words. angstslashhope requested: 1. Anything focused on the fact that John was caring for an infant/young children in his early hunting years; 2. Either of the boys going through growing-up milestones (learning to talk/walk/pee standing up/whatever!) and 3. Family domesticity. She gets all three. Title is taken from “The Two Brothers” by Hans Christian Anderson. yasminke worked beta magic and made this story so much better.
Summary: Sammy needs a haircut.
~
“Dad.”
Dean’s voice is soft, tentative. That’s hardly a surprise, considering the way John snapped at him an hour ago when Dean had first interrupted his research.
John marks his place in the text with a little stick figure-decorated scrap of paper he finds on the table. One of Dean’s masterpieces, he guesses. He closes his journal and rolls his head back and around, feeling every one of his thirty-two years in the click and creak of his neck and shoulders.
Dean moves closer, the faint odor of gun oil just detectable under the less familiar scent of freshly-scrubbed boy. Dean’s skin is pink-tinged from almost-too-hot bathwater, and his still-damp hair sticks out in odd little tufts and spikes.
“Dad,” Dean tries again softly, and he stops a few feet from the table, stares down at his bare feet like he’s willing them to move of their own accord. John sees that his pyjama pants are too short, the frayed cuffs not quite reaching down to Dean’s ankles. He can’t remember the last time he bought the boys clothes.
“Hey.” John makes his own voice gentle, matches Dean’s tone, letting the boy know it’s okay to approach him, he won’t bite. This time. He sighs, and pushes the chair back from the table, putting space between him and the books. He leans forward, angling his body towards Dean, resting his elbows on his knees. “Sorry, son. Time got away from me, I guess.” It’s not much of an excuse, really.
Dean steps closer and rests the heel of his hand on the edge of the table next to him, his fingers unconsciously drumming a hesitant rhythm. It’s not like Dean to be nervous. John reaches out, covers the back of Dean’s hand with his own, and the boy flinches a little.
“You got a problem?” He figures that Dean wouldn’t be out here otherwise. Or be so goddamn twitchy. Jesus.
“Dean.” Firm tone. Dean responds instantly, his shoulders straightening, the fluttering fingers stilling. “Well?”
“It’s Sammy.” Dean doesn’t fidget any more, but he doesn’t meet John’s eyes either.
“What about Sammy?” It can’t be anything too terrible; otherwise Dean would have said something earlier. Then he remembers that Dean did try and he yelled at the boy. He sighs softly. “He’s okay, right?”
“Yes, sir.” Dean nods slowly. “It’s just that - well, you know - just-” And he starts in with the fidgeting again, shifting from one foot to the other.
“Spit it out, son,” John orders. He can’t bear to have Dean dancing round the issue like this.
Dean swallows briefly and takes a shaky breath, like he’s bracing himself. Then -
“I-think-Sammy-kinda-maybe-needs-a-haircut.” A garbled breathless rush, then Dean comes to an abrupt halt, holding his breath in anticipation of the response.
John does his best to stifle a grin when he sees the stricken look in his son’s eyes. “Something in particular making you think that?”
And then Dean’s doing that goddamn foot shuffle again, and John grips his arm, forces him into sudden stillness. “Dean.”
There’s a splotch of foam just behind Dean’s ear, and John reaches up, rubs his hand over the back of the boy’s head. The hair there is soapy-slick, his fingertips come away slippery with half-rinsed shampoo.
“You missed a spot,” John says wryly. There’s no shower attachment in the tub, Dean had most likely dunked his head under the bathwater and rinsed it off under the faucet. He hadn’t risked calling for help, anyway.
Dean’s hair has grown out, the ends sun-bleached to dark-gold, curling over the nape of his neck in damp cowlicks. Looks like Sammy’s not the only one who kinda maybe needs a haircut.
John stands up, puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder and steers him towards the tiny bathroom. Dean just moves along with him, and John feels the warmth of his son’s skin through the worn fabric, his fingers find loose threads that have strayed from an ancient, frayed seam. They’re gonna have to hit Sears pretty soon.
The bathroom looks like a war zone. Which isn’t that surprising, considering Sammy’s distinct lack of enthusiasm for the whole bath time routine. John remembers a baby who splashed and gurgled and cooed when Mary dribbled cupped handfuls of water over his dark curls. He wonders exactly when that sweet smiling baby boy became a screaming, bawling banshee with an allergy to soap.
There’s foam and water everywhere-floor, tiles-the goddamn light fixtures, for Christ’s sake.
“Tidal wave hit, son?” he asks, nonchalantly.
“Sammy made a run for it,” Dean answers, then shrugs, his shoulder blade sharp under the flat of John’s palm.
John just nods and picks a path to the tub, carefully avoiding the sodden towels, discarded clothing and lethal patches of dissolving foam that make the floor skating-rink slick. He moves his hand down to Dean’s arm and the kid trails beside him obediently, kneels at the edge of the tub when John presses down on his shoulder.
“Lean forward,” he instructs, and Dean obeys, holds onto the edge and leans over, tipping his head down. There’s an old plastic juice cup next to the faucet, the red plastic faded to almost pink, a cracked worn-away picture of what looks to be a three-legged Scooby Doo on the side. Used to be Dean’s, John thinks, like most things that Sam has. He tips out whatever potion Sam was mixing, then runs the water until it’s warm and fills the cup. He pours it over the back of Dean’s head, sluicing the residual soap from the boy’s hair with his hand. Dean grips the edge of the bathtub tight and keeps his head down.
“So what makes you think Sammy needs a haircut?” John fills the cup and rinses again.
Dean lifts a hand to rub at his eyes as the soap trail runs from behind his ears down his cheeks. Then spits a mouthful of soapy water into the tub. “Dad.” There’s no censure in his tone.
“Oh - right.” John hands him a washcloth and Dean swipes it roughly across his face. “Sorry.”
“S’alright.” Dean looks up at him, eyes red-rimmed from the rinsed-out suds.
Mary had always used baby shampoo, even after Dean wasn’t a baby any more. She’d been totally taken in by the ‘no more tears’ tagline. John looks over to the shelf and sees the shampoo there, some cheap, generic brand, whatever was on sale last time they shopped.
He tugs a hand through Dean’s hair, feels it squeak between his fingers and Dean jerks in silent protest. He lifts a worn towel from the rail and hands it to his son; lets Dean wipe his eyes and mouth. “That better?”
Dean nods. It’s not like he’s not going to say ‘no’, because Dean doesn’t do that. He used to before, John thinks: over bedtimes and broccoli and brushing his teeth and a thousand and one other tiny rebellions that don’t seem important any more.
He takes the towel back and wraps it around Dean’s head, rubbing vigorously. “So. Sammy? About this haircut?”
Dean squirms away from him. “Dad, my ears. Dude.” The kid’s ears are kinda pink.
“Sorry.” He settles himself on the toilet seat, pulls Dean to him and rubs the towel over the back of the boy’s head in a slightly less frenetic manner. Dean relaxes a little, leans back against John’s knees and drops his chin onto his chest. John sees the ridged knobs and curves of the small spine pushing against the soft fabric of his pyjama top. He could count the bones, he thinks.
“Me and Sammy went to the store today.”
“Mmm.” John makes his grunt noncommittal, just enough to keep Dean talking.
“And there was this lady there.” Dean drawls the word ‘lady’ like it’s some kind of horribly contagious disease.
“That must have been a shock, finding a lady in a store.” John imitates Dean’s inflection exactly.
“Daad.” This time John can hear the eye-roll in his son’s tone.
“What?” John bites his lip, tries to hide the amusement in his own voice. Fails miserably. “I’m just saying.”
“She thought Sammy was a girl.” Dean spits that out, his voice low, full of righteous anger and scornful indignation and somewhere underneath it all, forlorn distress.
“Ah.” John gets it then. “Because of his hair, right?”
Dean nods. “Stupid old witch.” He aims a kick at the floor, his toe shifting a sodden towel with a wet slap.
“Watch it, buddy.”
“I said witch,” Dean sulks, and his foot comes down in a petulant stamp, a faint echo of the epic tantrums of his toddler days.
John smacks his palm lightly against Dean’s leg. “And I said ‘watch it’.” He rubs the sting out of the swat, though, as Dean mumbles an unwilling apology.
“So, you think we need to give him a haircut?” To be honest, John’s not keen. Sammy hates getting his hair combed, never mind cut. The very idea of approaching the squirming four-year-old with scissors fills John with an unnameable dread.
“Not you, Dad.” Dean doesn’t make much effort to hide the skepticism in his tone. John doesn’t blame him; Dean’s had first-hand experience of his father’s barbering skills.
“You planning on taking up hairdressing, son?” A grin tugs at the corners of his mouth when he sees the horror in Dean’s expression.
“Dad.” An exasperated sigh, but not enough insolence to earn him a ‘watch your tone’. Dean knows the limits: he’s a fast learner. “We could go to a real barber. There’s one on the way to the park, on the corner of East Johnson. ”
Dean knows this because he takes Sammy to the park every day. John went there with them, once, when they first moved in, to check it out, make sure it was safe. He hasn’t been back since.
He runs his hand over Dean’s hair again, only faintly damp now, then pats him on the back. “We’re done.” He releases the kid and Dean shuffles forward, bends to pick up the towel.
“You brush your teeth already?”
“Uh huh.” Dean wrings the washcloth out over the tub, hangs it over the radiator. Picking up after himself, John realizes.
“Dean.” He makes his son’s name a command for attention and Dean looks up then, his face open and easy. John rubs his hand over his own face. “You should go to bed, son.”
“I will.” Dean doesn’t stop though, now he’s folding the towel that John used to dry his hair.
“Leave it.” John has to put his hand onto Dean’s arm before the kid actually stops. “Dean. I can pick up.”
Dean’s eyes crinkle in confusion. “Uh - right.” He wavers for a moment, like he’s not sure what he should do.
“Bed, son.” John helps him out with a gentle shove in the direction of the door, and once he’s started him on the way, Dean just keeps on going.
Dean’s almost asleep by the time John finishes up in the bathroom. He’s curled in the bed nearest the window; John can just make out the thin strip of salt laid along the sill, pale yellow in the sodium glare of the street light. Sammy is snoring faintly in the other bed, the blankets kicked down and wound around his feet in intricate knots. John bends to untangle them and Dean shifts at the sound; turns his head, instantly aware.
“He’ll just kick them off again. S’too hot.” He says it wearily; with a level of exhaustion in the too-hoarse croak that doesn’t belong in a child’s voice.
John nods, holds the blanket against his chest, twisting it through his hands. “’Bout time you were asleep, son,” he orders softly, and Dean’s eyes close again, ridiculously long lashes fluttering onto flushed cheeks. He looks younger, smaller somehow, the tiny creases at the edges of his eyes smoothing out as his face slackens, softening in sleep to resemble the little boy that John remembers he once had.
*~*~*~*
“Daddy.”
Sammy’s voice is an insistent whine. Kid was up at the crack of dawn, looking for Fruit Loops or Lucky Charms, or some other damn cereal drenched in enough sugar to pay a dentist’s country club fees for several decades. All he could find was Cheerios, sadly lacking in the apparently vital sugar-coating, and Sam had pitched a fit right in the middle of the kitchen floor.
Dean had arrived in the kitchen a few moments after the first agonizing wail of distress, dragged a slightly wobbly kitchen chair over to the cupboard and climbed up to retrieve a bag of mini marshmallows from behind the Junior Tylenol. He sprinkled them over the Cheerios with an ease borne of weary familiarity.
“Homemade Lucky Charms,” he’d whispered, as the bawling had ceased almost instantly, tear-tracks miraculously halting mid-cheek.
“Deean.” This time it’s a longer drawn-out whine, well-practiced by the sound of it, accompanied by the flat slap of Sammy’s sneakered feet as they drag along the pavement.
“You’re goin’ too fast, my legs are tired.” Dean’s footsteps halt behind him and John turns, sees Sammy’s brows drawn down, his bottom lip jutting out in sullen protest.
“Boys.” Voice tight, command in his tone. “Get a move on.” He aims a look at Dean and the boy nods, takes Sam’s hand, pulling him along.
“Come on, squirt. You gotta pick up the pace. You wanna go to the park, right?” That’s the deal Sammy struck. He gets a haircut, he gets park time. John marvels at the negotiation skills of his four-year-old. Kid could give a lawyer a run for his money.
“But I’m hun-gry.” There’s a world of yearning in those two syllables, and John sighs inwardly. A sugar high never lasted very long with Sammy. “You got candy, Dean?”
Dean just tugs at Sam’s hand and purposely avoids John’s eye. If possible, Dean’s sugar habit is worse than Sam’s; the kid has the stuff stashed all over the apartment. Every time they go to the store, John finds surreptitious packs of Tootsie Rolls and M&Ms tucked under the cans of soups and economy-sized bags of table salt. He lets it go, pays for it without mentioning it, because God knows the boys don’t get many treats. He’s under no illusion; figures if he wasn’t paying for it, Dean would be opting for the five finger discount.
“Sammy.” John puts a little stern into his tone. “You get candy after the haircut, okay?” He looks at Sam, but it’s Dean he’s talking to. “Okay?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean answers and he shakes Sammy’s shoulder in gentle encouragement.
“Yes, sir.” Sammy’s obedient declaration echoes Dean’s intonation perfectly.
Another block and they’re at the barber shop, right where Dean said, at the intersection of East Johnson and Beardsley. It’s not a great neighborhood, boarded-up windows and graffiti-scrawled walls, but it’s only one step down from where they’re renting right now, that tiny one-bedroom furnace of an apartment that he can barely afford.
The barber shop has no name, no apparent street number. It just stands there, in a small standalone brick building, as if it’s been there forever. There’s not even a pole, just one side of the door frame decorated in candy cane stripes, the paint chipped and flaking.
It looks old, the kind of old that John remembers seemed old when he was a kid, and he glances at the window, half-expecting to see evidence of the barber’s former trade, an amputated leg alongside a cut-throat razor. He’s not sure if he’s relieved or a little disappointed when he finds the window lacking in such gory details.
There’s a soft ding as he opens the door onto a scene from his own childhood. The place is tiny - two chairs, and four waiting, and that’s it. The ceiling’s low enough that he could knock his head on the light fixture, and there’s a magazine rack behind the chairs, back copies of Sport Magazine and Classic Car out front, with Playboy tucked discreetly behind.
It’s the smell, though, that chases back the years, the rich heaviness of ancient tobacco-soaked vinyl mingling with the sweet scent of Vitalis. It’s the smell of once-a-month Saturday mornings with his father, escaping into a dark shadowy haven where his father smoked cigars and bitched about the Indians or the Tigers, and John got his hair cut. He has vague memories of the barbers, two elderly brothers, long past the point of ever needing a haircut themselves, who argued about sports, politics and women. In that descending order of importance.
He remembers the sharp bee sting of the clippers against his ear when once he turned his head too quick, and the antiseptic which burned almost worse than the cut. He also remembers the red and white swirled lollipop he’d gotten as a reward for not bawling, and even now, when he cuts himself shaving, he can sometimes taste creamy sweet vanilla.
There’s a jar on the counter filled with lollipops, and it’s the first thing Sammy notices when the boys tumble in behind him, their chatter bright and sharp as the morning sunshine that follows them into the interior of the shop, golden rays setting the dust motes alight in the still air.
“Dean! They got those swirly ones here, can we get one? You got quarters, right?”
Sam’s voice is high-pitched, too loud for this quiet sanctuary. John turns to hush him, but Dean’s already got his hand over Sam’s mouth, shaking his head in warning.
“Keep it down, Sammy. You know what Dad said: haircut, then candy.” Dean’s voice is an exaggerated whisper.
“But they’re not candy, they’re lollipops.” John suppresses an unwilling smile at Sam’s inscrutable logic.
The barber looks over at the boys and John sees a hint of a smile playing over his lips. He breathes a silent sigh of relief and wonders if the poor guy knows what the hell he’s in for.
The shop’s busy; both chairs occupied and two waiting. John nods to Dean, and he hustles Sammy over to the waiting chairs. The boys are small enough that they both fit onto one chair, Dean folding himself so that Sammy can squeeze in beside him. Sam’s little legs dangle free, not yet long enough to reach the ground. He swings them intently, his rubber-capped toe meeting Dean’s calf muscle regularly enough to leave bruises.
John settles into the other chair and taps Sammy’s knee lightly. “Go easy there, son.”
Sam’s leg stills and he cranes his neck, trying to look at the copy of Classic Car that Dean’s snagged from the rack. John’s just relieved it’s not Playboy. He’s not ready to have that particular conversation just yet. Maybe not ever.
He closes his eyes, lulled by the steady hum of the clippers and the hiss of whispered confidences shared between his sons. Sammy asks Dean if this is the same as the library, because they have to be quiet there, and Dean tells him to hush up and ‘take a look at the sweet little ass on that’. John jerks to full consciousness at his words, expecting to see Dean with a contraband Playboy, but he’s still got the Classic Car open, drooling over a ‘67 Mustang. He shakes his head half in relief, half in disbelief at the blasphemy, and Dean just shoots a grin at him over the top of the magazine. Smartass.
The barber is finishing up with the guy who was waiting before them, tightening an already regulation-short crewcut. Guy could be Corps, he looks about the right age, home on leave maybe. John remembers his last visit to his childhood barbershop, just before shipping out to Da Nang. On his own, that time; the sting of his father’s anger aching deeper than the darkening bruise laid across the edge of his jaw. He’d been too young and stubborn then to realize that it wasn’t disappointment, but terror that had controlled his father’s temper.
“Okay, sir.” The barber nods to John, and both boys straighten in the seat, shoulders bumping as they square them.
Dean goes first, without argument, without fuss; he just climbs up into the huge vinyl chair obediently. John feels a tiny bubble of pride swell in his chest. Dean looks suddenly very small, the huge black cloak engulfing him, wrapped tight around the back of his neck. Sammy shuffles a little closer then, and John feels a hot, pudgy little hand curling into his own.
“Does it hurt?” Sammy whispers, blinking up at him from under his too-long bangs.
John shakes his head and wraps his arm around the kid’s shoulders. “Not a bit. You just watch Dean, son.”
The barber threads a comb through Dean’s hair, trimming the sun-bleached tips so that they fall away in little golden clots. The sheared hair looks even lighter against the black cloak, almost as blonde as Mary’s, John thinks. The barber pushes Dean’s head forward, works the clippers up the back of his head, and John sees the red line where sunburn and freckles meet the newly exposed pale nape. There’s a layer of peeling skin that suggests it must have been hurting like hell, but he doesn’t remember Dean complaining.
“See,” John says to Sammy, and the little boy cuddles in tighter to his hip. “Dean’s not scared.”
Dean looks up from where his head is bent and catches Sam’s eye in the mirror. Then he slides his hand out from under the cloak and gives his little brother a thumbs-up and his best cocky grin.
The barber adjusts the angle of Dean’s head and goes to work with the clippers, rising evenly from smooth tight edges to just enough on top to comb down. When he finishes, there’s a faint halo shimmering around the crown, the last of the summer still shining in the ends. The barber slicks the top into place, and Dean looks at John in the mirror and smiles broadly. John smiles back, trying to remember exactly when Dean’s front teeth grew in.
“All done, kiddo.” John gives Sammy’s shoulders a reassuring squeeze. “Didn’t hurt at all, right, Dean?”
“No, sir.” Dean hops down from the chair, and shakes his head, grinning even wider when the barber offers him the pick of the candy jar. Dean chooses a red and white swirled Lifesaver pop and unwraps it eagerly.
“Okay, Sammy. Your turn.” John gives the boy a gentle shove. Sammy doesn’t move, just hunches forward in the chair, his lower lip trembling ominously.
“Duntwanna.” It’s not so much a word, more an unarticulated gurgle.
“Sam.” Firm tone, just like he uses with Dean. Except it doesn’t work with Sammy. Sam drops his chin down onto his chest, and John can’t see his eyes under those damn bangs, but from the hitched breathing and choked-back sobs it’s clear he’s about to start bawling.
There’s a line waiting now, the three other chairs taken and two more standing, and John feels the prickle of sweat breaking over the back of his neck as Sammy’s strangled gasps become more audible. He’s winding himself up for a full-blown tantrum.
“Settle down, Sammy. You’re getting a haircut and that’s all there is to it.” Yeah, that’ll work.
Sam takes a huge, shuddering breath, sucking in enough oxygen for the first earsplitting howl. John is just about to tuck him under his arm and haul his ass out of the shop, when Dean crouches down low in front of his little brother.
“Hey, squirt. Can’t have stupid old witc-” he glances up at John “-ladies calling us girls, right?”
The hitched sobbing pauses momentarily, then there’s a hiccup, followed by a damp-sounding sniff. Sam shakes his head, shaggy curls bouncing at the movement. He wipes a snail-trail of snot onto his cuff. “Nuh-uh.”
“Dude.” Dean smacks him lightly on the shoulder, and holds out the lollipop, looking up at John for permission. John sighs and nods.
“Here ya go, Sammy.” The transformation is magical. Sam sticks the candy into his mouth, then hops off the chair and slips his other hand into Dean’s. Dean leads him over to the barber’s chair, helps him to climb up and hovers patiently next to the chair as the barber starts in on Sammy’s mop.
“Like Dean’s, like Dean’s.” John can just make out Sam’s high-pitched insistence over the buzz of the clippers.
The barber works slower than with Dean, shearing the curls, sending them tumbling to the floor, dark mixing with the pale gold leavings of Dean’s haircut. They’re Mary’s boys, both of them, gold for Dean and curls for Sammy. John thinks of the baby books she kept for them both, the lock of hair taped next to the Polaroid of Dean’s first haircut. The spaces in Sammy’s burned-up book saved for first tooth, first step, first haircut. Milestones that have come and gone unrecorded.
Sammy is sitting reasonably still, watching the barber’s progress in the mirror, the lollipop tucked in his bulging cheek. Dean is talking quietly to him, John can’t make him out over the hum of the clippers, but whatever he says, it’s enough to make Sammy smile so wide he drools pink saliva down his chin.
Then it’s done, and Mary’s baby boy is gone, leaving a little soldier in his place. Sam turns his head in wonder, as if he’s just rediscovered the use of his eyes. He’s rewarded with his choice of lollipop, and he shoves his hand deep into the candy jar, roots around until he finds a Tootsie Pop. Dean’s favorite.
“Daddy.” Sammy jumps down from the chair and skids to a halt in front of him, turning his head from side to side. “See?”
“Good job, Sammy,” John says, and he nods his approval to Dean. The boy flushes, the tips of his ears reddening at the unspoken appreciation. It makes John wonder how long it’s been since he told Dean good job, or well done, or even just thank you. He’s pretty sure Dean already knows that, though. The kid’s good at figuring that kind of stuff out. He gets enough practice, anyway.
“Your turn, Daddy.” Sammy is kneeling on the seat next to him, reaching up to tug at the back of John’s hair. He’s not particularly gentle.
“You think?”
Both boys nod decisively and John figures he could probably do with a trim. He settles himself in the barber’s chair, lifts his chin for the cloak to wrap around his neck.
The barber smiles and nods over to the boys in the mirror. “Good soldiers.”
John looks over at his boys. They’re sitting side by side, heads bent together, as Sammy solemnly hands the lollipop to his brother. John swallows, and his throat is tight and hot, his breath catching in his chest.
“Yeah,” he says, “They are.”