(no subject)
Title: the shave
Author: captainswank
Pairing: wincest
Rating: PG
Words: ~1,100
Summary: Dean shaves his brother with a straight razor. It's a little intense.
Sam follows Dean into the thick sweet warmth of the motel bathroom. His brother pushes him gently down by the shoulders, and he sinks willingly; is seated. There’s a towel sunk deep into the hot steaming water in the sink and Dean draws it out, wrings it out, wraps it gently around his brother’s face. Sam makes a small sound of pleasure at the warmth on his skin and Dean turns back to the counter beside the sink.
He produces a straight razor from a big brown shaving kit. The razor is black-handled and simple, and not yet sharp. Before putting the blade to his little brother’s throat it must not be dull, so Dean lays out a little white towel on the old countertop before putting down the razor, finds the whetstone and the leather strop inside his kit. He takes out a badger hair brush, oil, a small steel bowl, and shaving cream of a completely different species than their usual gas station shit.
His tools are scattered about the sink, though the whetstone remains in his hands. Sam watches as Dean slides his fingers up and down the stone, as he wipes it clean, as he oils up its coarse surface. Sam watches Dean lay the stone down and sharpen the blade as he has sharpened many, many blades before. Sweep, sweep, heel to point- Sam watches Dean in silence. Sweep, sweep, heel to point, ten strokes in each direction; Dean plays his razor with an easy rhythm. When he is done the blade shines deadly. Even so Dean tests it, drawing it light across his thumbnail, and it digs in smooth and steady, perfect. Dean is very skilled at sharpening his blades.
His razor is not yet ready for his brother’s face. The pulse of Dean’s quiet work had so drawn Sam in that when Dean’s sweeping stopped he felt his body’s strings cut as he leaned back with closed eyes. And so his eyes are closed while Dean’s are stuck on his task as he hooks his leather strop to the drawer. He holds the bottom of his strop and pulls it tight and hears his brother breathe deep. It’s quiet again after Sam’s sigh and in that quiet Dean works the blade and the leather, drawing the razor towards himself so quick, and away, and back, and away until it’s done. Now the blade is ready for his brother.
But the rest of his tools are not, so he plops the good cream into the little bowl and soaks his badger brush. Sam hears him flick the extra water off, listens as Dean churns and stirs the rich man’s cream into a soft thick lather. He sets it down and Sam opens his eyes as he feels Dean slip into his space.
Dean leans forward to peel the warm towel from his brother’s face, slides his palm slow across Sam’s stubble and finds it soft. Seemingly content he stands straight again with a little sound of satisfaction and pats his brother lightly on the cheek.
Now Dean has the brush in hand, lathered, and he swirls the thick white cream across his brother’s cheeks. He’s slow and careful and sure to cover every inch he needs to, checking that Sam’s upper lip, his cheeks and neck and chin are white with it when he cleans it up even. Now his brother’s ready for the blade.
Dean picks up their razor with a certain kind of reverence. The steel of the blade is of very fine quality. Dean catches the razor’s sharp point underneath his thumbnail and lets it slip off quick, and the blade sings sweetly. Well-tempered, and of very fine quality.
Dean slices air when he draws it close to Sammy’s face. No one else will ever know but the two brothers breathe together when the blade comes up to kiss his skin. Dean doesn’t linger long but takes slow and steady strokes, his hand confident and firm as it is with any deadly weapon.
Sam is unsurprised by Dean’s gentleness. The pressure of both the blade and the fingers Dean presses against his temple to help the razor glide are light. Sam lets Dean push and position and manipulate his head so he can reach each cheek. Sam wants to watch Dean work, to watch each firm and careful stroke, to observe Dean in a state of total concentration in which his brother’s eyes sweep across his skin to assure the quality of his work. But Sam is lost in the rich scent of the cream and the heat of the room that makes him feel wrapped up in soft cotton. Sam is lost in the rhythmic grind and sound the razor makes against his old beard. Sam is lost in the press of the blade on his skin and with a shaking breath his eyes are closed again.
Dean’s found an even beat to his work and moves on, deft flicks to remove the cream from the blade in between swipes down Sam’s jaw. He tilts Sam’s head way back when he reaches lower. There’s a moment when the sight of Sam’s long neck is bared to him, when he lays his blade against his brother’s throat. Sam thinks of all the other necks that’ve felt Dean’s knives. He thinks of the starkness of bright red on clean pure white. Dean thinks it too but he doesn’t shake when he draws the first sweep of the blade down his brother. Sam lets out the breath he was holding in.
Later Sam can’t recall what came after, the sensation of the razor drawing across his chin and upper lip. He’ll remember the feeling of Dean’s warm hand stretching his skin tight while he is shaved, but not much else. Maybe one day the memory of the hot and ripped-out rawness in his chest will return.
But now Dean’s finished, lays the black-handled blade down and rinses Sammy off with cool water. Splashes on the aftershave and powder. With both hands he surveys his work, running his palms over the smoothness of his brother’s cheeks and neck and chin. Against all odds a speck of white cream remains on the pink of Sam’s lips. Sam thinks he can feel every ridge of the whorl of Dean’s thumb when it pulls and drags across to clean his lip.
The white cream’s gone and Dean straightens. Sam stands and looks in the mirror and feels his face himself. Dean’s left it sweet and soft and smooth, no nicks nor blood. He runs his hand across his throat.
Thanks, Dean. It’s not said with words but a nod, a slight inclination of the head, a tilt and turn of the neck. His brother nods back.
Author: captainswank
Pairing: wincest
Rating: PG
Words: ~1,100
Summary: Dean shaves his brother with a straight razor. It's a little intense.
Sam follows Dean into the thick sweet warmth of the motel bathroom. His brother pushes him gently down by the shoulders, and he sinks willingly; is seated. There’s a towel sunk deep into the hot steaming water in the sink and Dean draws it out, wrings it out, wraps it gently around his brother’s face. Sam makes a small sound of pleasure at the warmth on his skin and Dean turns back to the counter beside the sink.
He produces a straight razor from a big brown shaving kit. The razor is black-handled and simple, and not yet sharp. Before putting the blade to his little brother’s throat it must not be dull, so Dean lays out a little white towel on the old countertop before putting down the razor, finds the whetstone and the leather strop inside his kit. He takes out a badger hair brush, oil, a small steel bowl, and shaving cream of a completely different species than their usual gas station shit.
His tools are scattered about the sink, though the whetstone remains in his hands. Sam watches as Dean slides his fingers up and down the stone, as he wipes it clean, as he oils up its coarse surface. Sam watches Dean lay the stone down and sharpen the blade as he has sharpened many, many blades before. Sweep, sweep, heel to point- Sam watches Dean in silence. Sweep, sweep, heel to point, ten strokes in each direction; Dean plays his razor with an easy rhythm. When he is done the blade shines deadly. Even so Dean tests it, drawing it light across his thumbnail, and it digs in smooth and steady, perfect. Dean is very skilled at sharpening his blades.
His razor is not yet ready for his brother’s face. The pulse of Dean’s quiet work had so drawn Sam in that when Dean’s sweeping stopped he felt his body’s strings cut as he leaned back with closed eyes. And so his eyes are closed while Dean’s are stuck on his task as he hooks his leather strop to the drawer. He holds the bottom of his strop and pulls it tight and hears his brother breathe deep. It’s quiet again after Sam’s sigh and in that quiet Dean works the blade and the leather, drawing the razor towards himself so quick, and away, and back, and away until it’s done. Now the blade is ready for his brother.
But the rest of his tools are not, so he plops the good cream into the little bowl and soaks his badger brush. Sam hears him flick the extra water off, listens as Dean churns and stirs the rich man’s cream into a soft thick lather. He sets it down and Sam opens his eyes as he feels Dean slip into his space.
Dean leans forward to peel the warm towel from his brother’s face, slides his palm slow across Sam’s stubble and finds it soft. Seemingly content he stands straight again with a little sound of satisfaction and pats his brother lightly on the cheek.
Now Dean has the brush in hand, lathered, and he swirls the thick white cream across his brother’s cheeks. He’s slow and careful and sure to cover every inch he needs to, checking that Sam’s upper lip, his cheeks and neck and chin are white with it when he cleans it up even. Now his brother’s ready for the blade.
Dean picks up their razor with a certain kind of reverence. The steel of the blade is of very fine quality. Dean catches the razor’s sharp point underneath his thumbnail and lets it slip off quick, and the blade sings sweetly. Well-tempered, and of very fine quality.
Dean slices air when he draws it close to Sammy’s face. No one else will ever know but the two brothers breathe together when the blade comes up to kiss his skin. Dean doesn’t linger long but takes slow and steady strokes, his hand confident and firm as it is with any deadly weapon.
Sam is unsurprised by Dean’s gentleness. The pressure of both the blade and the fingers Dean presses against his temple to help the razor glide are light. Sam lets Dean push and position and manipulate his head so he can reach each cheek. Sam wants to watch Dean work, to watch each firm and careful stroke, to observe Dean in a state of total concentration in which his brother’s eyes sweep across his skin to assure the quality of his work. But Sam is lost in the rich scent of the cream and the heat of the room that makes him feel wrapped up in soft cotton. Sam is lost in the rhythmic grind and sound the razor makes against his old beard. Sam is lost in the press of the blade on his skin and with a shaking breath his eyes are closed again.
Dean’s found an even beat to his work and moves on, deft flicks to remove the cream from the blade in between swipes down Sam’s jaw. He tilts Sam’s head way back when he reaches lower. There’s a moment when the sight of Sam’s long neck is bared to him, when he lays his blade against his brother’s throat. Sam thinks of all the other necks that’ve felt Dean’s knives. He thinks of the starkness of bright red on clean pure white. Dean thinks it too but he doesn’t shake when he draws the first sweep of the blade down his brother. Sam lets out the breath he was holding in.
Later Sam can’t recall what came after, the sensation of the razor drawing across his chin and upper lip. He’ll remember the feeling of Dean’s warm hand stretching his skin tight while he is shaved, but not much else. Maybe one day the memory of the hot and ripped-out rawness in his chest will return.
But now Dean’s finished, lays the black-handled blade down and rinses Sammy off with cool water. Splashes on the aftershave and powder. With both hands he surveys his work, running his palms over the smoothness of his brother’s cheeks and neck and chin. Against all odds a speck of white cream remains on the pink of Sam’s lips. Sam thinks he can feel every ridge of the whorl of Dean’s thumb when it pulls and drags across to clean his lip.
The white cream’s gone and Dean straightens. Sam stands and looks in the mirror and feels his face himself. Dean’s left it sweet and soft and smooth, no nicks nor blood. He runs his hand across his throat.
Thanks, Dean. It’s not said with words but a nod, a slight inclination of the head, a tilt and turn of the neck. His brother nods back.