Fic: 'Behind A Thin Disguise' (Sam/Dean; PG-13)
Last one! Going back to poking other fics to magically finish themselves now. *poke*
Behind A Thin Disguise
Sam/Dean
PG-13. 777 words. For nomelon, original prompt: Sam/Dean, first time, either pre Stanford or post AHBL, cutting each other's hair.
Hi, I think we’ve established that I have a Dean hair!kink. MAYBE.
“It’s a disguise,” Sam says, and he isn’t laughing, all serious, especially when Dean’s holding a pair of scissors right near Sam’s forehead. Dean opens and closes the scissors, smirks. Dean’s got a year, got the feds after him, and they’re in some dump of a motel, Sam in the middle of Dean giving him a haircut.
Only a little, he’d said, and fuck if Dean was going to let Sam get away with his crappy plan if it’s ‘only a little.’
Dean’s growing his hair out a ‘little’, tiny bangs brush annoyingly at his forehead, all Sam’s idea, like it’s such a great one, like they don’t already travel with the same car and keep on as usual, hell, even Dean realizes it’s not always the smartest idea.
But the car? The car’s staying. The haircut’ll go eventually. “Too bad I don’t have a bowl. That made things easier when you were a kid. Can’t stick one on your big fat head now though.”
Sam rolls his eyes as Dean snips off another lock, and Christ, the kid’s got ears! Dean hardly sees those.
Ten minutes later, Sam’s banging on the bathroom door, grumbling, palming his hair. “It’s too short,” he’s saying, and Dean’s razor is fucked up and gummy, and that’s just not hygienic. Dean glares in Sam’s direction, eyebrows up, looks at the way Sam’s tugging at his hair and sure, Dean may have cut it too short. Because, second glance, he thinks Sam’s got funny ears. Huh.
His brother though, takes this as an opportunity to teach Dean the finer art of shaving, which is a load of bullshit as far as Dean’s concerned because on the rare times Sam tries to, you know, act like he has a pair, his beard ain’t anything special-that is, what little Dean can see before Sam shaves.
And it’s thoughts like this that pop into his head, Sam bringing the straight razor-where he got it, Dean doesn’t know, but hey, Sam’s freaky enough-close to the edge of Dean’s jaw, breathes out on his skin. It’s a soft, cool touch because of the water and shaving cream.
“Uh, Sam.” Dean’s throat feels scratchy, like he wants to cough but can’t.
Sam bites his lip. “Hold still. You’ll look, uh.”
Dean lowers his voice, barely a whisper. “What?”
“Years younger?”
“Fuck you,” Dean snaps, tries to, the irritation is hard to express when his voice cracks, Sam’s face barely inches away-too close for comfort, Dean can see his pores, slight hint of a tan that’s sure as hell a sight better than cold, dead flesh.
Dean’s not used to this, feels like he’s all wired up, can’t sit still, fingertips drum a beat on the tile of the bathroom sink counter. Sam clucks his tongue, the fuck, eyes like slits, and Dean’d call him on it but, you know, razor.
But Dean can’t help but focus on Sam’s face, feels Sam’s breath against his skin, a flush up his cheeks. Shiver runs down right to his cock, and this isn’t supposed to happen.
There’s a moment where Dean finds himself leaning into the touch, drop of blood on the razor and Sam’s breathing, shaky. And that’s when Dean’s eyes snap open, ready to backpedal and pull away. But Sam grabs Dean, one palm on the side of his face, gingerly puts his mouth on Dean’s own.
It takes years and seconds at once, pounding in Dean’s chest, in his brain, but the way Sam’s face is flushed, this smile spreading, and god, they’re gonna talk about this, the fuck they’re doing-
Sam rubs away at the cut, wipes the side of Dean’s face, jaw with his palm, sweaty and nervous. Dean is clean, smooth, and his gut twists, ready to mouth an insult, or one of concern. Except his mouth’s like… opening and closing all funny. Sam kisses him again, shuts him up good, hands on either side of Dean’s face, and wipes off the excess shaving cream with his thumbs.
“Jesus, I look like I’m twelve,” Dean murmurs, doesn’t know what else to say.
“Tell that to the feds if they try to arrest you,” Sam says, shrugs. “You can say you’re underage.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Some kinda plan this is. Your ears look funny.”
“Shut up, smart ass,” Sam retorts, except he’s smiling and he’s acting like a freakin’ girl. That Dean just kissed.
They’ve got one year and Dean, watching Sam get ready to grab some coffee and talk later, thinks he’ll enjoy the ride.
Maybe not the haircut. Shaving though, the shaving really works. Dean’s fine with that.
end
Behind A Thin Disguise
Sam/Dean
PG-13. 777 words. For nomelon, original prompt: Sam/Dean, first time, either pre Stanford or post AHBL, cutting each other's hair.
Hi, I think we’ve established that I have a Dean hair!kink. MAYBE.
“It’s a disguise,” Sam says, and he isn’t laughing, all serious, especially when Dean’s holding a pair of scissors right near Sam’s forehead. Dean opens and closes the scissors, smirks. Dean’s got a year, got the feds after him, and they’re in some dump of a motel, Sam in the middle of Dean giving him a haircut.
Only a little, he’d said, and fuck if Dean was going to let Sam get away with his crappy plan if it’s ‘only a little.’
Dean’s growing his hair out a ‘little’, tiny bangs brush annoyingly at his forehead, all Sam’s idea, like it’s such a great one, like they don’t already travel with the same car and keep on as usual, hell, even Dean realizes it’s not always the smartest idea.
But the car? The car’s staying. The haircut’ll go eventually. “Too bad I don’t have a bowl. That made things easier when you were a kid. Can’t stick one on your big fat head now though.”
Sam rolls his eyes as Dean snips off another lock, and Christ, the kid’s got ears! Dean hardly sees those.
Ten minutes later, Sam’s banging on the bathroom door, grumbling, palming his hair. “It’s too short,” he’s saying, and Dean’s razor is fucked up and gummy, and that’s just not hygienic. Dean glares in Sam’s direction, eyebrows up, looks at the way Sam’s tugging at his hair and sure, Dean may have cut it too short. Because, second glance, he thinks Sam’s got funny ears. Huh.
His brother though, takes this as an opportunity to teach Dean the finer art of shaving, which is a load of bullshit as far as Dean’s concerned because on the rare times Sam tries to, you know, act like he has a pair, his beard ain’t anything special-that is, what little Dean can see before Sam shaves.
And it’s thoughts like this that pop into his head, Sam bringing the straight razor-where he got it, Dean doesn’t know, but hey, Sam’s freaky enough-close to the edge of Dean’s jaw, breathes out on his skin. It’s a soft, cool touch because of the water and shaving cream.
“Uh, Sam.” Dean’s throat feels scratchy, like he wants to cough but can’t.
Sam bites his lip. “Hold still. You’ll look, uh.”
Dean lowers his voice, barely a whisper. “What?”
“Years younger?”
“Fuck you,” Dean snaps, tries to, the irritation is hard to express when his voice cracks, Sam’s face barely inches away-too close for comfort, Dean can see his pores, slight hint of a tan that’s sure as hell a sight better than cold, dead flesh.
Dean’s not used to this, feels like he’s all wired up, can’t sit still, fingertips drum a beat on the tile of the bathroom sink counter. Sam clucks his tongue, the fuck, eyes like slits, and Dean’d call him on it but, you know, razor.
But Dean can’t help but focus on Sam’s face, feels Sam’s breath against his skin, a flush up his cheeks. Shiver runs down right to his cock, and this isn’t supposed to happen.
There’s a moment where Dean finds himself leaning into the touch, drop of blood on the razor and Sam’s breathing, shaky. And that’s when Dean’s eyes snap open, ready to backpedal and pull away. But Sam grabs Dean, one palm on the side of his face, gingerly puts his mouth on Dean’s own.
It takes years and seconds at once, pounding in Dean’s chest, in his brain, but the way Sam’s face is flushed, this smile spreading, and god, they’re gonna talk about this, the fuck they’re doing-
Sam rubs away at the cut, wipes the side of Dean’s face, jaw with his palm, sweaty and nervous. Dean is clean, smooth, and his gut twists, ready to mouth an insult, or one of concern. Except his mouth’s like… opening and closing all funny. Sam kisses him again, shuts him up good, hands on either side of Dean’s face, and wipes off the excess shaving cream with his thumbs.
“Jesus, I look like I’m twelve,” Dean murmurs, doesn’t know what else to say.
“Tell that to the feds if they try to arrest you,” Sam says, shrugs. “You can say you’re underage.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Some kinda plan this is. Your ears look funny.”
“Shut up, smart ass,” Sam retorts, except he’s smiling and he’s acting like a freakin’ girl. That Dean just kissed.
They’ve got one year and Dean, watching Sam get ready to grab some coffee and talk later, thinks he’ll enjoy the ride.
Maybe not the haircut. Shaving though, the shaving really works. Dean’s fine with that.
end