Fic: 'Lend Me Your Comb' (Sam/Dean; PG-13)
Three A+'s. THREE. \o/ Oh college, ahthankyou and I promise not to sleep through graduation this Wednesday. I doubt the remaining class will be an A+. But three!
Taking a break from Big Bang art to re-post a polished up ficlet from ohnokripkedidnt's Make Kripke Kry fic fest. Certain People demanded cursed objects and I deliver.
Lend Me Your Comb
Sam/Dean
PG-13. ~680 words. For regala_electra, original prompt: Sam has a magic brush and must brush his locks 1,000 times a night or face monstrous hair in the morning. Dean takes up the task of brushing out tricksy knots. Post S3 - spoilers for the finale.
“Oww, God, watch what-Dean.”
“Shut up, princess, don't interrupt a master at work,” Dean grumbles. His thighs are spread wide around Sam’s waist, sitting behind him and ignoring the dull pain in his lower back as he works out the tangles from Sam’s hair. Dean’s doing his job as a good brother because the kid couldn’t shut up for once and listen to directions.
“If you’d just listen to me-”
“Dude,” Sam says, and his eyes narrow as he tries to turn around, Dean’s brush threatening to get stuck in his hair. The handle is sparkly and spun glass, and if Dean just tried to shove it in Sam’s hair and let it stick, it could almost look like a tiara.
A tiara of stupid fucking doom, is what it is.
“You were the one that offended that witch.”
“Not my fault I’m not rockin’ the long and stupid hair so you could freaking go and use a cursed chick brush. Whatever happened to the time I told you not to touch my stuff?”
“Cookies I took when I was three are a very big difference to a cursed brush,” Sam replies. “And my hair isn’t stupid.”
“You keep telling yourself that.”
Dean switches the brush to his other hand, carefully trying to untwist the knots in Sam’s hair, how the little feathery bits and waves manage to tangle after a long and rough day. In the back of his head, he’s keeping count of how many strokes he’s doing, and the irony of ‘strokes’ isn’t lost on him. He bets Sam is keeping count too, if only because he keeps acting all fussy about Dean tugging at the knots, trying to straighten them out.
He rolls his right wrist, works out the soreness as he says, “That’s all that fruity crap you keep putting in your hair.”
Sam grunts, indicating they’ve come to the point where, after a few hours, he’s decided he’s too tired to offer a comeback. He’s keeping count instead, making sure Dean brushes his hair a thousand times, or risk having monstrous-literally-hair in the morning. Bad enough that he hardly cuts that mop; the idea of it coming alive and reaching out to get the first thing it sees is not something Dean wants to think about. ‘Cause the first thing will be him, since Sam all stretched out behind him the past week, nuzzling and draping an arm around Dean’s waist, trying to pull as much romantic shit as he can for now. Those vivid, painful memories of Hell still haven’t sunk in. Moments Dean can’t remember yet, flickers of sight and touch that dissolve with Sam’s warmth.
This is a slice of normal. Fucked up sort of normal that’ll send anyone else running, but curses, they can handle. Combing his brother’s hair like they’re at some kinda sleepover, well, Dean’ll take that any day. Incriminating material like this isn’t easy, but Dean’s gotta work at it, make sure he combs enough so that Sam’s all restless between Dean’s thighs, impatient now as he’d been when he was four and Dean did the same thing.
Briefly, tousling his hair. Get it decent. Not coming in a thousand times. That is, until they get to Bobby’s and try to figure out how to destroy this freakin’ stupid cursed brush.
Dean’s going to get carpal tunnel or whatever the fuck it is, keeping at it, so he gets his kicks in where he can, a distraction so he won’t go stir crazy. Leaning in past untangled curls to press his nose and mouth against Sam’s neck, huff a breath against the warm skin.
Sam arches up and back against him, another grunt as he sighs, and says, “Almost done.”
“Not yet,” Dean says, thinks he’s the best fucking multitasker in the world, one hand brushing, the other trailing down Sam’s arm, belly, dragging a finger along the waistband before it stops to hook around a belt loop.
Sam grins a little, licking his lips. “Think you could do both?”
“Let’s find out.”
end
Does this mean I need to get a hair!kink tag now? *covers face in hand*
Taking a break from Big Bang art to re-post a polished up ficlet from ohnokripkedidnt's Make Kripke Kry fic fest. Certain People demanded cursed objects and I deliver.
Lend Me Your Comb
Sam/Dean
PG-13. ~680 words. For regala_electra, original prompt: Sam has a magic brush and must brush his locks 1,000 times a night or face monstrous hair in the morning. Dean takes up the task of brushing out tricksy knots. Post S3 - spoilers for the finale.
“Oww, God, watch what-Dean.”
“Shut up, princess, don't interrupt a master at work,” Dean grumbles. His thighs are spread wide around Sam’s waist, sitting behind him and ignoring the dull pain in his lower back as he works out the tangles from Sam’s hair. Dean’s doing his job as a good brother because the kid couldn’t shut up for once and listen to directions.
“If you’d just listen to me-”
“Dude,” Sam says, and his eyes narrow as he tries to turn around, Dean’s brush threatening to get stuck in his hair. The handle is sparkly and spun glass, and if Dean just tried to shove it in Sam’s hair and let it stick, it could almost look like a tiara.
A tiara of stupid fucking doom, is what it is.
“You were the one that offended that witch.”
“Not my fault I’m not rockin’ the long and stupid hair so you could freaking go and use a cursed chick brush. Whatever happened to the time I told you not to touch my stuff?”
“Cookies I took when I was three are a very big difference to a cursed brush,” Sam replies. “And my hair isn’t stupid.”
“You keep telling yourself that.”
Dean switches the brush to his other hand, carefully trying to untwist the knots in Sam’s hair, how the little feathery bits and waves manage to tangle after a long and rough day. In the back of his head, he’s keeping count of how many strokes he’s doing, and the irony of ‘strokes’ isn’t lost on him. He bets Sam is keeping count too, if only because he keeps acting all fussy about Dean tugging at the knots, trying to straighten them out.
He rolls his right wrist, works out the soreness as he says, “That’s all that fruity crap you keep putting in your hair.”
Sam grunts, indicating they’ve come to the point where, after a few hours, he’s decided he’s too tired to offer a comeback. He’s keeping count instead, making sure Dean brushes his hair a thousand times, or risk having monstrous-literally-hair in the morning. Bad enough that he hardly cuts that mop; the idea of it coming alive and reaching out to get the first thing it sees is not something Dean wants to think about. ‘Cause the first thing will be him, since Sam all stretched out behind him the past week, nuzzling and draping an arm around Dean’s waist, trying to pull as much romantic shit as he can for now. Those vivid, painful memories of Hell still haven’t sunk in. Moments Dean can’t remember yet, flickers of sight and touch that dissolve with Sam’s warmth.
This is a slice of normal. Fucked up sort of normal that’ll send anyone else running, but curses, they can handle. Combing his brother’s hair like they’re at some kinda sleepover, well, Dean’ll take that any day. Incriminating material like this isn’t easy, but Dean’s gotta work at it, make sure he combs enough so that Sam’s all restless between Dean’s thighs, impatient now as he’d been when he was four and Dean did the same thing.
Briefly, tousling his hair. Get it decent. Not coming in a thousand times. That is, until they get to Bobby’s and try to figure out how to destroy this freakin’ stupid cursed brush.
Dean’s going to get carpal tunnel or whatever the fuck it is, keeping at it, so he gets his kicks in where he can, a distraction so he won’t go stir crazy. Leaning in past untangled curls to press his nose and mouth against Sam’s neck, huff a breath against the warm skin.
Sam arches up and back against him, another grunt as he sighs, and says, “Almost done.”
“Not yet,” Dean says, thinks he’s the best fucking multitasker in the world, one hand brushing, the other trailing down Sam’s arm, belly, dragging a finger along the waistband before it stops to hook around a belt loop.
Sam grins a little, licking his lips. “Think you could do both?”
“Let’s find out.”
end
Does this mean I need to get a hair!kink tag now? *covers face in hand*