Characters: Sam and Dean Winchester
Word Count: 1,000
Disclaimer: Don't own them
The brothers' run in with a chupacabra has left Dean scratching his head. Literally.
"This is freakin' stupid," Dean snorted; "you're wrong, I know you're wrong."
"Just sit still already" Sam huffed, looming over the back of his squirming brother's head, and adjusting the feeble glow of the table lamp behind him; "I need to see properly."
The motel room's one rickety chair creaked and groaned painfully as Dean fidgeted relentlessly under Sam's grip on his towel-draped shoulders. "There's nothing to see," he grumbled irritably, shrugging Sam's hand away; "because you're freakin' imagining it!"
"Dean," Sam sighed, mustering his dwindling reserves of patience; "I know what I saw, and you've been tearing at your your goddamn head for a week, you're making me feel cootie!"
As if on cue, a tiny black speck sprung out of Dean's scalp and disappeared effortlessly into the carpet.
The owl-shaped clock on the wall ticked across a brief silence.
"What the hell … ?" Dean turned and stared at Sam who tried with all his might to stop the words 'told, you, and so' from tumbling out of his mouth.
Instead, he went for; "still think I imagined it?"
Another tiny black speck; Dean's affronted gape widened.
"I haven't?" Dean spluttered; "I have … I've got freakin' fleas?"
Sam airily waved a metal nit comb before Dean's face; "why else d'y think I had to go out this morning and get this?" He asked, his voice taking on a slightly strangled pitch in exasperation.
Dean tugged the towel tighter around his shoulders and harrumphed ingraciously; "I thought it was some wussy hair grip so you could pin your hair back in a bun or somethin'," he mumbled sulkily into his chest.
The owl-shaped clock continued to tick, counting the seconds as Sam manfully fought the urge to rip it off the wall and brain both Dean and his lodgers with it.
Sam's eyes followed the little black speck as it took an aerial route from behind Dean's ear down to the carpet at his feet, and he took great delight in stomping energetically on that spot.
He was so going to kick their nasty, springy little creepy-crawly asses. As well as giving them payback for hopping the chupacabra and invading his brother (and consequently making his life hell), he equally didn't want them packing up and moving on to pastures new – like his own head. He was going to find every last patch of eggs on Dean's mangy, infested head and scrub them out of existence with that disgusting shampoo that smells like cat pee, and Dean could bitch and whine all he liked.
Sam was on a mission and he wasn't letting up until Dean's head was a bug-free zone.
Shaking his head impatiently, he gripped Dean's shoulder again, and his long fingers parted the unruly tuft at Dean's crown as he set to work with the comb.
Dean squirmed again, ducking out from under Sam's hand; "woah, never mind all the head fondling; I'll freakin' do it;" he reached up for the comb.
Sam took deep breath; that owl-clock was looking mighty tempting.
"Dean, don't be such a dick, you can't examine your own scalp, unless you've got some kind of goddamn periscope stashed away that I don't know about."
Sam was convinced he heard a soft whistling noise as the logic of his argument flew over Dean's head; "I need to try to get rid of as many of their eggs as I can before I blitz you with the pesticide shampoo."
Dean bristled; "YOU … blitz me?"
Sam growled; that owl-clock's days were definitely numbered.
He rubbed his face wearily; "yes Dean, I've got to do it because you can't see the top of that great dense head of yours to treat your hair thoroughly enough."
Dean huffed irritably.
"Of course," Sam continued; "I could just shave it while I'm up here and that'd solve all our problems." To reinforce the point, he reached over to his nightstand where he had left his razor after the morning's ablutions.
"No, no … NO," there was a brief hint of panic in Dean's voice, before he wordlessly admitted defeat, letting out a long sigh.
"Well jus' make sure you don't enjoy it too much when you're feelin' me up; this ain't no friggin' indian head massage."
Sam rolled his eyes as he steered Dean's shoulders back into a forward facing position. "Yeah, okay Dean," he snapped; "I'll make sure not to have the time of my life while I'm dealing with your vermin."
He couldn't help but notice the tips of Dean's ears as they suddenly flushed a fairly nuclear shade of crimson, and suddenly regretted his harsh tone. Okay, Sam finally got it; Dean was mortified that he'd somehow managed to acquire an infestation.
Oh, these little sonsofbitches were history.
Brooking no argument, Sam gripped Dean's head with a new sense of purpose; to get the job done in the minimum of time and with the minimum of fuss. His long fingers began working their way methodically across Dean's scalp; lifting and separating the hair, and running the comb through it, working swiftly but thoroughly.
Sam ducked as another little black critter sprang up and disappeared over the top of his head as he stood, working methodically in time with the ticking of the owl clock. His fingertips fell into a busy routine; lift, comb, lift comb … all made much easier by the fact that Dean's testy squirming and sulky huffing had finally stilled.
It seemed he had finally settled his head round the idea that Sam was trying to help and Sam took advantage of the fact; working carefully, determined not to make a scene that would make Dean feel any more cringe-makingly uncomfortable than he already was. Both Dean and the owl clock had earned a reprieve.
Eventually he was satisfied he'd explored and scrutinised every inch of Dean's scalp, discreetly finding and evicting as many of Dean's uninvited guests as he could. It was time to finish the job.
"Hey Dean," he called, trying to keep a sympathetic levity in his voice; "we need to wash your hair, man."
He hesitated when no response was forthcoming.