Sam gazed ruminatively at the strange, yet oddly familiar, teenager sitting beside him.
“Dude, quit staring at my hair!” his brother complained.
“It’s just, I don’t remember you having highlights,” Sam explained. “When did you get highlights?”
“I had ‘em a while,” Dean replied evasively.
Sam figured, if he didn’t remember them, it couldn’t have been for long. “I’m surprised Dad let you color your hair,” he remarked experimentally.
“I’m fourteen, dude!”
Sam allowed a short silence to pass, then delivered the decisive thrust. “He made you cut them out, didn’t he?”
“Took the trimmer to me himself,” Dean grumbled.