Supernatural Gen fic - Like Any Other Man
You know I've been a little obsessed with the whole Still Life show. Thanks to the wonderful innie_darling, I now know my obsession was completely worthwhile. Oh, it is good. There is daddy angst and brother angst, and Jensen with floppy hair and he is hot. Now, I just need them to put the other episodes on air.
As a thank you, I wrote a little something that innie_darling commented she'd like to see. I feel I ought to give a large amount of credit to embroiderama as her latest wonderful fic put this idea in my head.
TITLE: Like Any Other Man
RATING: PG13
CHARACTERS: John, teen!Dean and Sam
DISCLAIMER: I am not now and have never been a hairdresser, despite my current obsession. Bend it till it Breaks belongs to John Anderson.
NOTES: 2700 words. Dean POV. John's hurt. Dean and Sam cope.
“I said I was sorry, okay?”
Sam doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds moody and still pissed about being dragged out tonight to wait in the car while they took care of the poltergeist.
Dean half turns to look at his brother in the back seat, and wills him to shut his mouth. Practically screams ‘don’t push it’ in his mind, but Sam seems determined to ignore Dean’s attempts at telepathy.
“If you’d just let me stay home, I would’ve -”
Whatever it was Sam would have done is lost as Dad smacks his hand down on the steering wheel, hard, making them both jump.
“That’s enough.” His voice is low and rough; Dean recognizes the hint of menace in it, and makes his mental pleas to his brother slightly more frantic.
“But it’s not fair-”
“I’m not kidding, Sam.” Dad’s fingers are gripping the wheel tightly, as if he’s clinging to it for support. “Shut the fuck up.”
There’s a moment of stillness, then. Sam hunches against the backseat, for once in his life utterly speechless. Dean would make a crack about that if he wasn’t so stunned himself.
Dean knows that Dad swears; at the top of the hunt the air around him practically crackles blue with the ferocity of his language. But that’s for the hunt, for the ghosts and monsters and bad guys out there. Dad doesn’t swear at them, and especially he doesn’t swear at Sammy.
“Dad -” he begins, but the words die on his lips when Dad turns to him, shoots him a dark look full of warning.
“Stow it.” There’s no mistaking the low-level threat in his tone now - the push it and you’ll be sorry you spoke - kind of threat.
Dean looks at Dad’s hands clenched around the steering wheel. He knows the power behind those fists; has felt it to some degree in their sparring sessions, but Dad always keeps it under control. He would never hit Dean in anger. Then again, Dean thought that Dad would never ever swear at Sam, and look how that turned out. So he keeps his mouth shut.
The rest of the short journey back to the motel lasts about an eternity. Sam huddles in the back, silent and wide-eyed with shock. Dean tries to send him what he hopes are reassuring vibes, but truth is he’s pretty freaked out himself. On the radio some country guy’s going to bend it till it breaks, and Dean keeps sneaking glances at Dad in case he’s planning on taking the guy’s advice.
They pull into the parking lot, and Dean fumbles in the glove box, comes up with the room key. He reaches back, hands it to Sam.
“Go on inside, Sam. I’ll help Dad with the weapons.” Dean makes it an order, as stern as he can muster. He thinks his voice might be shaking a bit.
Sam practically leaps out of the car, desperate to put some distance between him and the stranger in the driver’s seat. Dean watches till he’s inside, then turns to face Dad.
He swallows, once, and braces himself. “Christo.”
He’s not sure what he’s expecting - a flinch of demonic distress, an impatient smack to the back of his head, Dad yelling at him for being an idiot - but certainly not this.
Dad makes a soft noise, half a laugh and half a sob, and then leans forward, covering his face with his hands. He keeps very still, and Dean isn’t sure whether he should stay with him or run like hell into the motel room with Sam and bolt the door.
“Dad, you okay?” Dean keeps his voice low and even, like he’s talking to a spooked animal that might either run off or turn around and kick him in the head.
Dad breathes out, long and slow and kind of shaky. “M’okay, son.” His voice sounds weird, almost slurry, like his tongue’s suddenly got too big for his mouth.
God, he’s an idiot. Dean could kick himself. “Did you hit your head, Dad? When you jumped in front of Sam?”
Dad mumbles a non-committal sound, but he seems less inclined to snap now, so Dean reaches over cautiously and touches his hand to the back of Dad’s head. It feels wet and sticky and Jesus did he drive home with an open head wound and how did Dean not notice?
Dean doesn’t press hard, but Dad jerks under his careful touch, hisses quietly.
“Okay.” Dean’s thinking fast. Head wounds are unpredictable. Could be Dad needs stitches, or maybe the ER, or fucking brain surgery. The enormity of that terrifies him, so he starts smaller, finds something he can cope with.
“Need to get you inside.” Dean gets out of the car, comes round to Dad’s side and opens the door. “You good to walk?”
Dad rubs his hands over his face, then sits back up, the paleness of his skin contrasting sharply with the starless dark of the night outside.
“Yeah.” Dad takes another deep breath, like he’s preparing himself, then swings his legs out of the car, pushes himself to stand up. He wobbles unsteadily, but stays upright.
Dean nods uselessly. “Right. Come on, then.”
He props his hand under Dad’s arm, and supports him casually. Dean’s grown some in the last year, but he’s still a few inches shy of Dad’s height, and he stumbles a little under the extra weight as he helps him into the room.
Sam’s already in the bathroom, washing up, so Dean takes advantage of his absence and maneouvres Dad onto the bed, propping him against the pillows so he doesn’t look like so much like death warmed up. He does still look like crap, though.
The waxy pallor of his skin is highlighted by the thin sheen of sweat on his face, and Dad’s struggling to keep his eyes focused. Dean’s seen him hurt before, too many times, but not quiet like this. Not like he’s fighting to keep it together.
“Dean-” Sam’s voice behind him is small, Dean can hear the tremor in it.
“It’s okay.” Dean turns to Sam, keeps his tone even and controlled. “Dad just got a couple of cuts I need to check.”
Sam’s face goes almost as white as Dad’s, and his lips frame a silent ‘oh’. Dean can see guilt written in his too-bright eyes.
“Listen, Sammy. I need the kit from the bathroom.” If he keeps Sam busy he won’t have time to panic. “And the pills from Dad’s stash. Not the Tylenol. The other ones. Percodan. Okay?”
Sam nods, but he stands in the doorway, frozen in place.
“Sam, move your ass.” Dean grits it out, hoping he sounds enough like Dad to get Sammy shifting.
Sam scoots back into the bathroom then, and Dean turns back to Dad. “I’m going to get the weapons and lock the car. You okay for a bit?”
Dad works on making his answer casual, and almost manages. “Yeah. Go.”
Dean would rather stay and keep an eye on Dad, but he knows it’s more important to get the weapons safe. Dad would kick his ass if some nut-job got hold of the stuff they’ve got stashed in the trunk.
He works quickly, grabs the bag of weapons and then locks up, checking the trunk separately. Just like Dad always does.
When he gets back inside, Dad’s still on the bed, his eyes closed, and Sam’s hovering next to him, holding the kit uncertainly.
“Right.” Dean nods to him. “Leave that stuff and do the salt lines.” Keep Sam busy. Busy means he’s not guilt-tripping about how Dad got hurt.
Sam blinks, sets the kit on the bed, then chews on his lip. “Dean, I didn’t think…”
“Door and windows, Sam. Get on it.” But Dean keeps his voice gentle, and gives Sam an encouraging smile.
Sam nods wordlessly and goes off to get the salt. Dean wishes Dad wasn’t quite so out of it, so he could see how quickly Sam can obey when he’s properly motivated.
Dean sits down on the bed. “Dad?”
Dad’s eyes remain closed, and he doesn’t react when Dean shakes his hand tentatively. Panic swells inside him, words like trauma and coma and brain damage spring unbidden to his mind, but he forces himself to calm down. Thinks about what Dad would do.
He remembers when he got knocked out that time in Saginaw, how Dad had brought him round. So he turns Dad’s hand over, exposing the pale underside of his wrist, then pinches the skin there between his thumb and forefinger, hard as he can.
Dad stirs, cursing softly, and Dean eases up on the pressure, leaving little red half-moon marks where his nails have bitten into the skin.
“Hey.” Dad’s voice is still thick, but there’s recognition in his eyes, and Dean’s glad of that. He’d been prepared for Dad to take a swing at him.
“Hey. How you feeling?”
“Like crap.” Dad raises his hand to the back of his head and then curses under his breath, but pretty fluently. Dean’s secretly impressed by the breadth of his vocabulary.
“I need to take a look at that.” Dean waves his hand towards Dad’s head.
Dad brings his hand down again, and there’s thick dark blood smeared across his fingers. “Not gonna be pretty.”
Dean shoots him a look. “No kidding.”
The tension eases a fraction, and there’s the spark of something familiar under Dad’s glazed look. “Watch it, buddy.”
“Right.” There’s no heat in his voice, and Dean accepts the warning willingly, a sign that Dad’s still in control. “Can you sit up?”
Dad grunts and shifts himself forward, and Dean sees dark red smudges on the pillow slip. He leans over, angles the bedside lamp to shine on Dad’s head, then tears open an antiseptic wipe and cleans his hands.
It’s hard to see at first, Dad’s hair is dark and kind of shaggy at the back, and the dried blood has matted it like animal fur. Dean pulls the light closer, runs his fingers through the thick hair carefully, letting them drift over the shape of Dad’s skull.
Dad jerks when his fingertips pass over the wound; spits a hissed ‘Christ’ at Dean.
“Sorry.” Dean lifts his hand, but he doesn’t look away. The cut isn’t that long, but it looks deep, like it’ll need a couple of stitches at least. “Found it.”
Dad moves his head, like he’s trying to see it for himself. “Any gray matter?”
That’s just gross. “Ah, dude,” Dean says, not caring if Dad hears the disgust in his tone. He peers closer at the wound, but it seems to be mostly blood and hair. “No brains in here,” he quips softly.
Dad’s shoulders shake at that. “You wanna watch that smart mouth, kiddo.”
“So I’ve been told.” Dean takes another wipe from the pack. “Gonna clean this a bit. You ready?”
Dean knows from personal experience that you can’t ever be ready for it. It’s a blessing and a curse; the body can’t remember pain, but it can’t be prepared for it either. Dad nods, and his fingers curl against the worn coverlet, gripping it tightly.
Dean swabs as gently as he can, but Dad flinches, his breath suddenly coming in short gasps. Dean just presses down on his shoulder and holds him steady, concentrates on getting the wound clean.
“Nearly done.” Dean tosses the saturated wipe into the trashcan by the bed and pulls out a clean one.
Dad’s groan is low and pained, but he manages to stay still as Dean finishes the job.
“There.” Dean lifts his hand off Dad’s shoulder, and Dad’s hand comes up off the bed, covering his face. He’s shaking, and trying hard not to. Dean turns away, gives him a moment to get himself under control, because Dad always thinks he needs to be, no matter what.
“Dean?” Sam’s finished salting, and he’s standing at the end of the bed now, looking lost and little, like he’s eight instead of twelve. “Is - is he going to be okay?”
“Yeah.. A few stitches and a couple of pills and he’ll be fine.” He says it like he believes it, convincing himself as much as Sammy.
Dad’s breathing has evened out again, and he lifts his hand away from his face, looks over to Sam. “I’m alright, son.”
Sam blinks fiercely and Dean knows he’s fighting tears. “Dad, I’m sorry.”
“I know.” Dad sighs softly. “Maybe you’ll listen next time.”
Dean wouldn’t bet on it, but he keeps that thought to himself, glad of the fragile peace that’s broken out between them. “Hey, Sam. You get me the scissors from the bathroom?”
Sam’s already in the bathroom before he’s finished the request, and Dad raises his eyebrows. “You think he’s possessed?”
Dean sits back down beside him, and goes through the kit for a pill. “You should take this before I stitch.”
Dad looks at the Percodan. “Breaking out the big guns, there. How many stitches do you reckon?”
“Three, maybe four. It’s kind of hard to tell.” Dean hands him the pill and a glass of water. “Come on, Dad.”
Dad accepts the medicine, and swallows it, then Sam comes back in with nail scissors.
“Dad,” Dean says warily, unsure how he’ll react. “I can’t do this with your hair in the way.”
Dad gives a tired smile. “You need to give me a haircut, go ahead.”
“Maybe just a bald patch.” Dean breathes out in silent relief, then moves in behind Dad, laying the kit out beside him on the bed.
Sam sits down on the other bed, still not doing much talking. It’s weird, usually Sam won’t shut up, but he’s eerily quiet now. Dad throwing himself in front of Sam to save him from an angry poltergeist must have a sobering effect on his little brother.
Dean spreads a worn towel over Dad’s shoulder and lifts the scissors.
He thinks back to a couple of days ago, when Dad gave them their usual monthly haircut. Dad’s not much for fashion; it doesn’t matter to him if the guys in school are wearing their hair longer. It’s not practical, and hair hanging in their eyes could get them in serious trouble on a hunt.
Dean agrees, and doesn’t really mind the neat short haircut, but lately Sam’s been kicking up about it, and he and Dad had gone the rounds this time over Sam’s bangs. Dad had won, of course, and Sam had sulked for a full day, till Dean had bribed him with Gummi bears. He had the M&Ms ready, just in case, but they hadn’t been needed this time.
Dean runs his fingers through Dad’s hair, finds the spot where the strands are clumped with drying blood. Then he pushes Dad’s head forward, very gently, and the light from the lamp glints off the blades of the scissors. He cuts carefully, and the first clot of hair is sheared, falls onto the white towel.
Dean hears Sam’s stifled gasp, but he just keeps focused on the task, trimming the hair back till he can see the wound properly. He was right; three will probably be enough.
“I think that’s got it now.” Dean hears the tremble in his voice, looks down at the back of Dad’s neck, suddenly bared and vulnerable in a way that he never is.
Dad shifts under his grip. “Think that pill’s kicking in now. You go ahead and start stitching. I might get kinda woozy, but just keep going.”
“Yes, sir.” Lamp light sparkles and blurs at the edge of his vision, and Dean blinks hard, then swipes his arm roughly across his eyes.
“You’re doing fine, son.” Dad’s voice is real soft now.
Dean nods, and waits for Dad’s breathing to slow down and even out before he starts stitching.
He tells himself that’s the reason he waits.
It’s long enough for Dad to be out of it so he doesn’t feel the pain.
It’s long enough for Sammy to lie back on the bed opposite, his eyes closing.
And almost long enough for Dean’s hands to stop shaking.
A/N2: The title for this comes from Judges Ch 16, v 17 - the story of Samson and Delilah: "if I be shaven, then my strength will go from me, and I shall become weak, and be like any other man"
As a thank you, I wrote a little something that innie_darling commented she'd like to see. I feel I ought to give a large amount of credit to embroiderama as her latest wonderful fic put this idea in my head.
TITLE: Like Any Other Man
RATING: PG13
CHARACTERS: John, teen!Dean and Sam
DISCLAIMER: I am not now and have never been a hairdresser, despite my current obsession. Bend it till it Breaks belongs to John Anderson.
NOTES: 2700 words. Dean POV. John's hurt. Dean and Sam cope.
“I said I was sorry, okay?”
Sam doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds moody and still pissed about being dragged out tonight to wait in the car while they took care of the poltergeist.
Dean half turns to look at his brother in the back seat, and wills him to shut his mouth. Practically screams ‘don’t push it’ in his mind, but Sam seems determined to ignore Dean’s attempts at telepathy.
“If you’d just let me stay home, I would’ve -”
Whatever it was Sam would have done is lost as Dad smacks his hand down on the steering wheel, hard, making them both jump.
“That’s enough.” His voice is low and rough; Dean recognizes the hint of menace in it, and makes his mental pleas to his brother slightly more frantic.
“But it’s not fair-”
“I’m not kidding, Sam.” Dad’s fingers are gripping the wheel tightly, as if he’s clinging to it for support. “Shut the fuck up.”
There’s a moment of stillness, then. Sam hunches against the backseat, for once in his life utterly speechless. Dean would make a crack about that if he wasn’t so stunned himself.
Dean knows that Dad swears; at the top of the hunt the air around him practically crackles blue with the ferocity of his language. But that’s for the hunt, for the ghosts and monsters and bad guys out there. Dad doesn’t swear at them, and especially he doesn’t swear at Sammy.
“Dad -” he begins, but the words die on his lips when Dad turns to him, shoots him a dark look full of warning.
“Stow it.” There’s no mistaking the low-level threat in his tone now - the push it and you’ll be sorry you spoke - kind of threat.
Dean looks at Dad’s hands clenched around the steering wheel. He knows the power behind those fists; has felt it to some degree in their sparring sessions, but Dad always keeps it under control. He would never hit Dean in anger. Then again, Dean thought that Dad would never ever swear at Sam, and look how that turned out. So he keeps his mouth shut.
The rest of the short journey back to the motel lasts about an eternity. Sam huddles in the back, silent and wide-eyed with shock. Dean tries to send him what he hopes are reassuring vibes, but truth is he’s pretty freaked out himself. On the radio some country guy’s going to bend it till it breaks, and Dean keeps sneaking glances at Dad in case he’s planning on taking the guy’s advice.
They pull into the parking lot, and Dean fumbles in the glove box, comes up with the room key. He reaches back, hands it to Sam.
“Go on inside, Sam. I’ll help Dad with the weapons.” Dean makes it an order, as stern as he can muster. He thinks his voice might be shaking a bit.
Sam practically leaps out of the car, desperate to put some distance between him and the stranger in the driver’s seat. Dean watches till he’s inside, then turns to face Dad.
He swallows, once, and braces himself. “Christo.”
He’s not sure what he’s expecting - a flinch of demonic distress, an impatient smack to the back of his head, Dad yelling at him for being an idiot - but certainly not this.
Dad makes a soft noise, half a laugh and half a sob, and then leans forward, covering his face with his hands. He keeps very still, and Dean isn’t sure whether he should stay with him or run like hell into the motel room with Sam and bolt the door.
“Dad, you okay?” Dean keeps his voice low and even, like he’s talking to a spooked animal that might either run off or turn around and kick him in the head.
Dad breathes out, long and slow and kind of shaky. “M’okay, son.” His voice sounds weird, almost slurry, like his tongue’s suddenly got too big for his mouth.
God, he’s an idiot. Dean could kick himself. “Did you hit your head, Dad? When you jumped in front of Sam?”
Dad mumbles a non-committal sound, but he seems less inclined to snap now, so Dean reaches over cautiously and touches his hand to the back of Dad’s head. It feels wet and sticky and Jesus did he drive home with an open head wound and how did Dean not notice?
Dean doesn’t press hard, but Dad jerks under his careful touch, hisses quietly.
“Okay.” Dean’s thinking fast. Head wounds are unpredictable. Could be Dad needs stitches, or maybe the ER, or fucking brain surgery. The enormity of that terrifies him, so he starts smaller, finds something he can cope with.
“Need to get you inside.” Dean gets out of the car, comes round to Dad’s side and opens the door. “You good to walk?”
Dad rubs his hands over his face, then sits back up, the paleness of his skin contrasting sharply with the starless dark of the night outside.
“Yeah.” Dad takes another deep breath, like he’s preparing himself, then swings his legs out of the car, pushes himself to stand up. He wobbles unsteadily, but stays upright.
Dean nods uselessly. “Right. Come on, then.”
He props his hand under Dad’s arm, and supports him casually. Dean’s grown some in the last year, but he’s still a few inches shy of Dad’s height, and he stumbles a little under the extra weight as he helps him into the room.
Sam’s already in the bathroom, washing up, so Dean takes advantage of his absence and maneouvres Dad onto the bed, propping him against the pillows so he doesn’t look like so much like death warmed up. He does still look like crap, though.
The waxy pallor of his skin is highlighted by the thin sheen of sweat on his face, and Dad’s struggling to keep his eyes focused. Dean’s seen him hurt before, too many times, but not quiet like this. Not like he’s fighting to keep it together.
“Dean-” Sam’s voice behind him is small, Dean can hear the tremor in it.
“It’s okay.” Dean turns to Sam, keeps his tone even and controlled. “Dad just got a couple of cuts I need to check.”
Sam’s face goes almost as white as Dad’s, and his lips frame a silent ‘oh’. Dean can see guilt written in his too-bright eyes.
“Listen, Sammy. I need the kit from the bathroom.” If he keeps Sam busy he won’t have time to panic. “And the pills from Dad’s stash. Not the Tylenol. The other ones. Percodan. Okay?”
Sam nods, but he stands in the doorway, frozen in place.
“Sam, move your ass.” Dean grits it out, hoping he sounds enough like Dad to get Sammy shifting.
Sam scoots back into the bathroom then, and Dean turns back to Dad. “I’m going to get the weapons and lock the car. You okay for a bit?”
Dad works on making his answer casual, and almost manages. “Yeah. Go.”
Dean would rather stay and keep an eye on Dad, but he knows it’s more important to get the weapons safe. Dad would kick his ass if some nut-job got hold of the stuff they’ve got stashed in the trunk.
He works quickly, grabs the bag of weapons and then locks up, checking the trunk separately. Just like Dad always does.
When he gets back inside, Dad’s still on the bed, his eyes closed, and Sam’s hovering next to him, holding the kit uncertainly.
“Right.” Dean nods to him. “Leave that stuff and do the salt lines.” Keep Sam busy. Busy means he’s not guilt-tripping about how Dad got hurt.
Sam blinks, sets the kit on the bed, then chews on his lip. “Dean, I didn’t think…”
“Door and windows, Sam. Get on it.” But Dean keeps his voice gentle, and gives Sam an encouraging smile.
Sam nods wordlessly and goes off to get the salt. Dean wishes Dad wasn’t quite so out of it, so he could see how quickly Sam can obey when he’s properly motivated.
Dean sits down on the bed. “Dad?”
Dad’s eyes remain closed, and he doesn’t react when Dean shakes his hand tentatively. Panic swells inside him, words like trauma and coma and brain damage spring unbidden to his mind, but he forces himself to calm down. Thinks about what Dad would do.
He remembers when he got knocked out that time in Saginaw, how Dad had brought him round. So he turns Dad’s hand over, exposing the pale underside of his wrist, then pinches the skin there between his thumb and forefinger, hard as he can.
Dad stirs, cursing softly, and Dean eases up on the pressure, leaving little red half-moon marks where his nails have bitten into the skin.
“Hey.” Dad’s voice is still thick, but there’s recognition in his eyes, and Dean’s glad of that. He’d been prepared for Dad to take a swing at him.
“Hey. How you feeling?”
“Like crap.” Dad raises his hand to the back of his head and then curses under his breath, but pretty fluently. Dean’s secretly impressed by the breadth of his vocabulary.
“I need to take a look at that.” Dean waves his hand towards Dad’s head.
Dad brings his hand down again, and there’s thick dark blood smeared across his fingers. “Not gonna be pretty.”
Dean shoots him a look. “No kidding.”
The tension eases a fraction, and there’s the spark of something familiar under Dad’s glazed look. “Watch it, buddy.”
“Right.” There’s no heat in his voice, and Dean accepts the warning willingly, a sign that Dad’s still in control. “Can you sit up?”
Dad grunts and shifts himself forward, and Dean sees dark red smudges on the pillow slip. He leans over, angles the bedside lamp to shine on Dad’s head, then tears open an antiseptic wipe and cleans his hands.
It’s hard to see at first, Dad’s hair is dark and kind of shaggy at the back, and the dried blood has matted it like animal fur. Dean pulls the light closer, runs his fingers through the thick hair carefully, letting them drift over the shape of Dad’s skull.
Dad jerks when his fingertips pass over the wound; spits a hissed ‘Christ’ at Dean.
“Sorry.” Dean lifts his hand, but he doesn’t look away. The cut isn’t that long, but it looks deep, like it’ll need a couple of stitches at least. “Found it.”
Dad moves his head, like he’s trying to see it for himself. “Any gray matter?”
That’s just gross. “Ah, dude,” Dean says, not caring if Dad hears the disgust in his tone. He peers closer at the wound, but it seems to be mostly blood and hair. “No brains in here,” he quips softly.
Dad’s shoulders shake at that. “You wanna watch that smart mouth, kiddo.”
“So I’ve been told.” Dean takes another wipe from the pack. “Gonna clean this a bit. You ready?”
Dean knows from personal experience that you can’t ever be ready for it. It’s a blessing and a curse; the body can’t remember pain, but it can’t be prepared for it either. Dad nods, and his fingers curl against the worn coverlet, gripping it tightly.
Dean swabs as gently as he can, but Dad flinches, his breath suddenly coming in short gasps. Dean just presses down on his shoulder and holds him steady, concentrates on getting the wound clean.
“Nearly done.” Dean tosses the saturated wipe into the trashcan by the bed and pulls out a clean one.
Dad’s groan is low and pained, but he manages to stay still as Dean finishes the job.
“There.” Dean lifts his hand off Dad’s shoulder, and Dad’s hand comes up off the bed, covering his face. He’s shaking, and trying hard not to. Dean turns away, gives him a moment to get himself under control, because Dad always thinks he needs to be, no matter what.
“Dean?” Sam’s finished salting, and he’s standing at the end of the bed now, looking lost and little, like he’s eight instead of twelve. “Is - is he going to be okay?”
“Yeah.. A few stitches and a couple of pills and he’ll be fine.” He says it like he believes it, convincing himself as much as Sammy.
Dad’s breathing has evened out again, and he lifts his hand away from his face, looks over to Sam. “I’m alright, son.”
Sam blinks fiercely and Dean knows he’s fighting tears. “Dad, I’m sorry.”
“I know.” Dad sighs softly. “Maybe you’ll listen next time.”
Dean wouldn’t bet on it, but he keeps that thought to himself, glad of the fragile peace that’s broken out between them. “Hey, Sam. You get me the scissors from the bathroom?”
Sam’s already in the bathroom before he’s finished the request, and Dad raises his eyebrows. “You think he’s possessed?”
Dean sits back down beside him, and goes through the kit for a pill. “You should take this before I stitch.”
Dad looks at the Percodan. “Breaking out the big guns, there. How many stitches do you reckon?”
“Three, maybe four. It’s kind of hard to tell.” Dean hands him the pill and a glass of water. “Come on, Dad.”
Dad accepts the medicine, and swallows it, then Sam comes back in with nail scissors.
“Dad,” Dean says warily, unsure how he’ll react. “I can’t do this with your hair in the way.”
Dad gives a tired smile. “You need to give me a haircut, go ahead.”
“Maybe just a bald patch.” Dean breathes out in silent relief, then moves in behind Dad, laying the kit out beside him on the bed.
Sam sits down on the other bed, still not doing much talking. It’s weird, usually Sam won’t shut up, but he’s eerily quiet now. Dad throwing himself in front of Sam to save him from an angry poltergeist must have a sobering effect on his little brother.
Dean spreads a worn towel over Dad’s shoulder and lifts the scissors.
He thinks back to a couple of days ago, when Dad gave them their usual monthly haircut. Dad’s not much for fashion; it doesn’t matter to him if the guys in school are wearing their hair longer. It’s not practical, and hair hanging in their eyes could get them in serious trouble on a hunt.
Dean agrees, and doesn’t really mind the neat short haircut, but lately Sam’s been kicking up about it, and he and Dad had gone the rounds this time over Sam’s bangs. Dad had won, of course, and Sam had sulked for a full day, till Dean had bribed him with Gummi bears. He had the M&Ms ready, just in case, but they hadn’t been needed this time.
Dean runs his fingers through Dad’s hair, finds the spot where the strands are clumped with drying blood. Then he pushes Dad’s head forward, very gently, and the light from the lamp glints off the blades of the scissors. He cuts carefully, and the first clot of hair is sheared, falls onto the white towel.
Dean hears Sam’s stifled gasp, but he just keeps focused on the task, trimming the hair back till he can see the wound properly. He was right; three will probably be enough.
“I think that’s got it now.” Dean hears the tremble in his voice, looks down at the back of Dad’s neck, suddenly bared and vulnerable in a way that he never is.
Dad shifts under his grip. “Think that pill’s kicking in now. You go ahead and start stitching. I might get kinda woozy, but just keep going.”
“Yes, sir.” Lamp light sparkles and blurs at the edge of his vision, and Dean blinks hard, then swipes his arm roughly across his eyes.
“You’re doing fine, son.” Dad’s voice is real soft now.
Dean nods, and waits for Dad’s breathing to slow down and even out before he starts stitching.
He tells himself that’s the reason he waits.
It’s long enough for Dad to be out of it so he doesn’t feel the pain.
It’s long enough for Sammy to lie back on the bed opposite, his eyes closing.
And almost long enough for Dean’s hands to stop shaking.
A/N2: The title for this comes from Judges Ch 16, v 17 - the story of Samson and Delilah: "if I be shaven, then my strength will go from me, and I shall become weak, and be like any other man"