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Bubblegum Dreamy

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When Dean wakes up one day, his hair is pink. He screams at his own reflection in the mirror and all the way to the kitchen where both Cas and Sam is seated by the table. He gasps and points and shrieks. Can't manage to pull himself together enough to ask “Do you guys see this? What have you done? Why do I even live with you?”. Sam laughs at him, howling and practically falls off his chair doing so. Cas grins. And chuckles. Apparently that are things he do now when he's human. Dean just runs away screaming of the top of his lungs again. He finds a wool hat in one of Sam’s drawers and even though it's a red-ish color that Dean thinks looks like vomit, he still pulls it on and doesn't take it off. It's summer and he is sweating his ass off but there is just no way he can walk around with neon pink hair. It turns out that it isn't Cas or Sam (or a combination of both) that have colored his hair in his sleep. The witch they encountered the day before had done some magic shit and now he is stuck with it. Like it won't even wash out in a couple of showers, it is freaking permanent. The other men had seen it the day before and accidentally failed to tell him before they went to bed. Convenient. Sam says he's never heard of anything like this but promises that he and Cas will do everything in their power to investigate a possible solution. Dean mutters and tugs the hat further down his ears.

They don't find shit. Dean is refusing to take cases because that means leaving the bunker which also means he has to take the hat off. 30 degrees Celsius is warm enough to melt his scalp off, without wearing anything on his head. He seriously considers to shave it all away. A rouge buzz must be better looking than the flowery mop he's having at the moment, right? But then he remembers that time his dad made him cut his hair military short and immediately regrets ever thinking he could have that cut again. Despite the awful color. Dean uses the hair as an argument not to pick up cases too; No one will take me seriously. No one is going to believe I'm FBI. Everyone will laugh at me.

Two weeks passes before Dean is out of the bunker. He is jittery and he runs a hand trough his hair about fifteen times a minute, but there is a case of vampires gone rogue and his brother and his angel need his assistant in taking out the nest. He sits in the Impala, driving to the outskirt of a town not far from the bunker, where Cas and Sam are waiting for him. He gets half a chock every time he's looking in the rear view mirror and he tries not to look more than necessary. He's tried everything. Made Sam buy him hair coloring. Black and browns and none of it has stuck. He tried drenching it in bleach and only managed to burn his skin and get spots on his favorite henley. He tried, in a desperate attempt to at least do something, to pour soy in it and it had just magically disappeared. I look like a fucking queer, he'd said one day. Hated that he sounded like his dad had when Dean wanted a purple shirt for his fourteenth birthday and regretted the words as he said them. They also made Castiel tell him off, saying that neither was queer something he should use as an insult - because it isn’t - and nor was his hair color an indication of his sexual preference.

It turns out that the nest isn’t such a big thing with three people attacking all at once. There is a couple of humans who’s survived, two guys in their mid twenties and a women in her forties. Dean has forgotten about the mess that springs out of his scalp for the duration of the killing, but remembers it when he stands heaving breaths and asking the survivors if they are okay. The two guys stare.

“Yeah, I know, it's a bit freaky, but at least I'm not going to dry you of your blood,” he says snappy and the two survivors blushes and looks away. The woman seems to have just been brought in by the vamps and is not in need of any medical attention and when the boys ask if she needs a ride home she just shakes her head and says she'll walk.

“I love all of your hairs by the way,” she says before she leaves, waving a hand in their general direction and then waving for real and walks away. The three of them stare at one another for a while before their gazes moves up their heads and sweeps over their very, completely different kinds of hair. Cas’s looks like a morning after disaster, black sex hair that is uncontrollable from the beginning and now is even more rumpled because of the fight. Sam has his walnut, Vella commercial locks and it looks seemingly like it has been unaffected throughout the dispute. And then there is Dean. He just smoothens a hand over the back of his head and can't really believe that the woman had included him in her hair-praise. At least the others has some sort of appeal, his is just extreme and hello, pink.

But the compliments keep coming. A girl says he has the most awesome hair she’s ever seen and a little boy asks if he can touch it. People seems to look at him twice, but everyone smiles, genuinely and not like they think he’s pathetic or that he's untrustworthy in whatever line of work he’s pretending to do. They do keep from acting like FBI though, think that it’s probably against regulations to have that color. A fifteen year old guy yells at him from across the street, saying that he is the most punk rock ever and crosses the street to give Dean a fist bump. It makes Sam smile and Cas looks approvingly as the boy wanders off.

Dean manages for a while. Wears his (Sam’s) hat for as much as he can but the Kansas June is not helping him. When July knocks on the door, he scraps the hat for good and just lives with the fucking hair. Not like he can do anything about it. He goes to a bar, because if he’s going to do this, he’s going to have a drink or seventeen and forget about it. He’s never been surprised when he’s been hit on. He knows he won a reasonable amount on the looks-lottery but this night he’s just baffled. No less then seven people hit on him over the course of two hours. There is a couple of blondes chicks who he dismisses immediately, a few guys who gives him the nod but he doesn’t give them anything in return even when he might actually want to. One brunette woman he actually lets buy him a drink. She’s flirty and laughs warmly and he likes it. She doesn’t bring up his hair for two beers, even though she has, without knowing it herself, started to drag her fingers over his neck hairs, so Dean feels the need to.

“You’re really… into this?” He asks, tries not to blush when he gestures towards the magenta.

“Yeah,” she says laughing, “you don’t?” He huffs and shakes his head slightly, takes a sip of his beer. She giggles and tells him that it is his hair.

“It makes you look like you can take on the world, you know? Like you’re comfortable enough with yourself that nothing can stop you. And it looks so bubblegum dreamy.” Dean stares at her. Bubblegum dreamy. Nothing he’s ever pictured being described as. Nothing he’s thought he’d ever feel pretty proud to be described as.

He doesn’t go home with her. He doesn’t take her number. He just walk to the bunker, sleeps and when he wakes up, it’s the first time in forever that he really doesn’t mind the sight that hits him when he looks in the mirror. Maybe it’s not so bad after all. It’s just hair. It’s just pink. Not like that is the end of the world.

Just as he’s getting used to it, it starts to fade. He notices a couple of days after the bar. He can’t really say that it’s neon anymore, the hot pink is more of a rose one. A few days later it’s taffy and soon it’s just a blush, definitely on its way back to normal. He doesn’t even feel relieved. He feels like there is something missing when the the tint just slightly might still be towards bubblegum. It’s his natural dark blond two days later. Dean looks himself in the mirror and admits, silently, that he misses it.

He's staring at labels and words and names and it is a terrifying experience. There are so many colors and they all have extreme names like VIOLENT VIOLET, FIERCE FUSHIA and THOUGH TEAL. He is so swept up in it all that he doesn’t hear Sam before he asks:

“You need any help with the...crazy cobalt?” Grin on his face too big for his own good.

“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean growls at him, quickly grasps and throws a packet of PASSIONATE PURPLE in the cart.