The most intuitive, most versatile, most adaptive, and greatest artists of our time are using their skills to create discomforting, high-concept abstractions of analog horror characters and Pack Of 500 Cigarettes in Tomodachi Life
i strongly feel in my heart you would write something beautiful to this headcanon because you just always hit every prompt on the head….please please please fulfill my dream
hi!
that's so sweet of you to say! <3 just for you, i've written a mini-fic for it.
Dean blinks at the stranger in the mirror. The stranger blinks back. Dean's been drunk before, but the days have all blurred together that Dean can't really tell if he's drunk, hungover, or some fucked-up combination of the two. He's been constantly nauseous for the better part of two weeks, and the bags under his eyes have gotten to heavy that he looks years older than he did a month ago.
The harsh, high-pitched buzz of the fluorescent tube lighting makes Dean's head pound harder. He feels like hell warmed over, and knows he must smell like it, too. His hair lies in greasy clumps around his face, and he can tell it's breaking him out, angry harsh spots along his hairline and forehead.
He hasn't bothered to get dressed except to walk down to the gas station to get more beer in a bit. He orders all of his food, when he can remember to eat, or after he's vomited up the remaining contents of his stomach.
The clippers sit in front of him, unplugged.
He hasn't seen Dad in a week. He doesn't know if he's on a hunt or on his own bender, and Dean kind of doesn't give a shit. Let the old man do whatever he wants. That was always his plan, regardless.
Dean looks away from the pale, sickly man in front of him and down at the clippers. It's a worn-out pair that they've had for a decade. Every haircut Dean's had since his voice dropped has come at the business end of these things.
Dean, Sam, and Dad, all pressed together in shitty motel bathrooms--an entangled little triangle, the strongest shape in nature, you know--trading the clippers back and forth, trimming their hair one by one over the too-small sink.
The cord is permanently kinked from spending so long at the bottom of duffles and getting hastily packed and shoved away when they had to make quick escapes. It still has some stubble on the electric blades from the last person to get a haircut.
Sam.
It still has some of Sam's hair on it.
Sam is--was, Dean has to remind himself, he's not fucking dead but Dean won't get any more of him for long enough that he'll exist in the past tense for...a while. Maybe forever.--always so fucking prissy that he insisted on seasonal styles. Buzzcut to his fragile, pale scalp in the summer, beads of sweat tensely collecting underneath and between the harsh, prickly strands of brown hair. Bowlcuts in the winter, shaggy and mop-ish.
Not Dean. Dean has had the same haircut since he was thirteen. Not military short like John, but a bit longer like those old photos of his father, before Dean was born. Long enough to fall into his eyes, tickle the back of his neck. Enough to grab onto when you were kissing him, and Dean loved to be fucking kissed. It didn't hurt that the Backstreet Boys or whoever had been rocking similar styles recently.
You can't tell now, though. Dean hasn't bothered to shave or cut his hair since Sam left, and his hair--stringy and greasy--has officially covered his ears. His sparse facial hair--never enough to grow a beard like Dad, not a man, not at all--is patchy, and his skin is red and pimple-ridden underneath.
Dean looks homeless. In a way, he guesses, he kind of is.
His home hit the fucking road, no pass-go, no collecting-200-dollars. His home is in shiny, summery California, a perpetual buzzcut, living the dream. The dream that doesn't have Dean in it.
Dean remembers two months ago, before Sam left him in his dust and didn't look back, shaving Sam's head for the summer. He remembers Sam's hands tucked between his knees, hunched over because he was too damn tall even sitting down for Dean to get at his head. They'd hauled the desk chair into the motel tub, and Dean had pulled this same cord to its limit, buzzing tresses of Sam's hair away.
The quietness of it, the way Sam's chest had expanded into Dean's body, the way his eyes fluttered shut, completely trusting, chewing on the inside of his cheek absently as Dean worked. Dean tucking his finger around Sam's ear and folding the soft cartilage away from the blades, following the familiar contours of Sam's skull like wheels over miles of freshly-paved highway. Dean hadn't known about Stanford yet, the stupid fucking fool. He'd been humming D'yer Mak'er while he worked, the closest to inner peace or meditation or whatever that he'd ever get.
Dean had almost slipped getting into the tub when he rounded Sam to get to his other side, and Sam had reached out and put a warm hand on the inside of his knee, holding him still while Dean cut away his hair and brushed it off of his brow.
Dean had almost stood between Sam's legs as he got the top of his head, and while Sam would usually look up at him in that way that made Dean's stomach all weird, this time he had his eyes clenched shut tight.
When Dean had finally nudged Sam up, and swapped places with him, he'd snuck a look at himself in the mirror past Sam's body.
You should give me a Professor X cut, too. He said. He'd patted his hair. I haven't gone short like you in a minute.
Sam's mouth pulled down into a painfully earnest frown.
Nah, he said, reaching a hand down and messing up Dean's hair, taking the resulting elbow to the stomach with a grin. No, this cut looks good. You've had it almost as long as I can remember.
Something weird had happened on his face, and Dean should've known something was up, he really should've.
It's very you. I've always liked it.
Dean had shot him a funny look. The Dean? He asked. You're telling me I get a signature look and it's the most basic haircut ever?
Sam had grinned. You're the one always saying you're a simple guy.
Dean had smacked his hands away.
Dean remembers when Sam was young, he'd bury his face in Dean's hair to fall asleep. Even when they found themselves sharing a bed as teens, Sam would roll over and have his face in Dean's hair by morning. When he wasn't tucking his head underneath Dean's chin, that is.
Dean scowls at himself in the mirror.
Fuck him.
Fuck Sam and his stupid fucking Dean cut, for wanting Dean and needing Dean and then just...not. Leaving Dean needing to be needed and loving to be wanted and cutting him off like a bitchy bartender.
Dean plugs the clippers in. Fuck him. Sam wants a life and a home and a world that doesn't have Dean in it? Fine. Fine.
Dean's not waiting for Sam to come back. Dean knows he's not. Dean knows he'll never see Sam again if he doesn't seek him out, and he's not going to fucking seek him out. Sam can rot. Sam can go fuck himself. Sam can come back and find Dean moved on, a new person, someone who doesn't need Sam, either.
Dean turns the clippers on, and without even pausing to think about it, shears a stripe all the way to the back of his head. The pressure is uneven, probably due to the fact that Dean is hungover or drunk or both, and the stripe undulates with different lengths the whole way back.
Dean does it again. And again. And again.
Ugly, useless clumps of hair--so greasy they're almost black--fall limply across his face and over his shoulders and to the floor.
He's breathing heavily by the time he's done, and has to brace a hand on the counter because the room spins a little. He looks at himself, and turns the clippers off, dropping them into the hair-covered sink.
He looks mangled, like someone left him in a blender.
"Fuck you," Dean says, or tries to say, but he hasn't talked to anyone since he ordered pizza a few days ago, and the words get caught thickly in his throat. "Fuck you!"
He says it over and over again until they come all the way out, until Dean punches the door frame and his hand hurts and he doesn't know who he's speaking to: Sam or Dad or himself.
Fuck it all.
Fuck.
~~~
Sam frowns. He's been standing in the aisle so long that one of the employees does laps near the end of his row every few minutes to make sure he hasn't tried to pocket anything. There are so many brands of clippers, promising different speeds and different lengths and guard sizes. Sam yearns for the simple, utilitarian pair that he'd used growing up.
The package had been tossed as soon as they'd been purchased back in '91, so Sam doesn't even know what the guard size used to be.
He picks the biggest one, because he doesn't want much. Scissors would probably be best suited for this, but Sam only knows how to give a clippers cut.
His hair is getting long as the year turns around to spring, and Sam knows if he were with Dean right now, it would be time for his yearly buzz.
His stomach clenches, and he pays for the clippers with awkward wads of cash pulled from his pockets. Bussing tables doesn't make a lot of money, and often the cash he gets from tips is fished haphazardly from the tip jar.
The cashier doesn't even blink, just passes him his plastic bag and handful of coins.
Twenty minutes later, Sam is staring at himself in the mirror.
This pair of clippers has batteries, and Sam uses his pocketknife to pry the package open. He so rarely has cause to use it anymore.
The clippers turn on with a gentle whir, much too quiet, and Sam gets to work. The angle is different, since he's never actually done it on himself before, but he gets the hang of it easily enough.
Sam's mind wanders to when he and his brother used to cut each other's hair. It feels like a million years ago, where Sam would crouch on a chair in a mildewy shower.
The thing that surprised Sam the most since he...left. Sam shakes his head. The thing that surprised Sam the most is how little he's touched now. Not in a weird way, or anything, but there is so little casual touch that Sam goes a little stir crazy with it.
Dean used to clap him on the shoulder or poke him in the ribs or catch him in a headlock to noogie him. Dad used to pat him on the shoulder or nudge him out of the way or pass him things.
Sam hadn't realized how much that skin-on-skin contact had been keeping him sane. He hasn't felt anyone's hands on him in months, and it's making his body feel too tight. Too...wrong. Anxious, almost. Even now, Sam used to look forward to haircuts because it was guaranteed skin-to-skin time with Dean, even if he didn't have the words for it, then. Even if Dean ragged on him the whole time, he'd touch Sam with soft hands.
Sam had closed his eyes throughout the entirety of his last haircut with Dean, trying to remember what it felt like and how Dean moved and how he breathed. Sam knew even then that Dean would never want to see him again after he learned about the Stanford acceptance letter burning a hole in the bottom of his backpack.
Sooner than he thought, Sam is staring at himself in the mirror. His throat gets tight. Dean Winchester stares back.
Sam never thought he and Dean look too much alike--much to his awkward teenage chagrin--but he can't deny the resemblance, as his hair falls in his eyes just like Dean's does, curls around the back of his neck.
Sam hasn't been able to look at the pictures he has in the bottom of his duffle yet. He snagged a photo of Mom and Dad that he keeps on his nightstand, and probably will whenever the dorm kicks him out for the summer next year, but the ones of Dean...Sam hasn't been able to touch those.
Before he can think about it, Sam steps out of the room and grabs his canvas jacket from the back of his desk chair and pulls it on. He looks back at himself in the mirror, and almost flinches.
Fuck.
His eyes burn.
Hey, Sammy, Sam mouths, and the image of it is so fucking visceral that Sam rips his jacket off and throws it blindly back into his room. His stomach twists with nausea and his heartbeat thumps sickeningly in his ears. He tears his hand through his hair, pushing back from his forehead, and it flops back. It's parted on a different side than Dean's--always has--and like this...
Sam's breath slows.
Like this, he looks...himself. Part of Dean, part of Sam. A piece of...home.
Sam clears his throat, and straightens his posture. The man in the mirror straightens as well. Not a kid, anymore. A man.
Sam smiles, and it's weak.
But...Sam can tell, one day, it'll be real. It'll be the real thing.
Sam flicks the lights off in the bathroom on his way out.
So many jackles shows/spin offs are in the works and not one of them has queerbait in them. You have the world's first omega on your hands and you refuse to use him to his full potential? So dumb 🙄 No wonder I see many people being so negative about his spin offs
CAS: Yes. And the archangel, Michael, again the Apocalypse World version, wants to use the spell to invade and conquer our world. That’s why I met with Lucifer.
DEAN: So...You met ... Cas, I specifically told you not to do anything stupid.
CAS: Well, he was weak and given the context of our imminent annihilation it didn’t seem stupid. Lucifer wanted to help fight Michael.
SAM: Oh yeah, Lucifer wanted to help, sure.
CAS: If he were lying I’d have known it. He was, he was scared. But Asmodeus showed up before we could finish our conversation and when we finally managed to escape Lucifer did try to kill me.
13x13
//
Ah, yes. Cas. The guy who knows when others are lying an never gets duped.
I love his overconfidence and rationalization skills SO MUCH, you guys. He's my special guy.
ALSO He also doesn't get words wrong
and his sense of direction is excellent.
/s
Somehow... life has made him more sure of himself AND less sure of himself at the same time, in so many wrong ways. That takes real talent, I think. Pessimism with others caring about him, but optimism with explaining away his recklessness. Three cheers for Cas!
This was on a post about how it's ignorant and privileged to wear headphones in public and I fear its already become a part of my vocabulary. Must everything harbor a moral failure.
the fact that misha collins does weird voices and over the top performances when he's playing different characters (cas, lucifer, the empty) but other actors that play those character Don't is so funny bc it implies something about jimmy novak makes immortal beings Act Up
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