Somebody Holds The Key
Title: Somebody Holds The Key
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1000
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: In which Dean has flashbacks and Sam shaves his brother's face.
Written for si_star_x who gave me the prompt can't find my way home over at silverbullets.
There isn't even a bitten back hiss.
Just the slight click of plastic against porcelain and Sam is on his feet, his heart racing along in his throat.
The bathroom door is unlocked, thank fuck.
He finds Dean staring at the sink, his plastic razor stained ever so slightly with his own blood. There’s a cut just under Dean’s jaw, lazily leaking red into the milky white shaving cream.
“Dean?” Sam says carefully.
Dean is sucking in quick, shallow breaths of air through his mouth as he’s blinking rapidly and Sam knows, somehow Sam knows it’s not the blood and it’s not the razor, it’s Dean’s blood on a razor.
Sam has read his Bible and his Inferno, he even looked through a couple of Dean’s old Hellblazer comics during the months he spent trying to get him back, all of which gave him a pretty good idea.
And if the red juice running out of a medium burger was enough to trigger a flashback last week, then this sure as hell is.
All the websites said to avoid touching until he’s sure Dean won’t interpret it as an attack, so Sam repeats his brother’s name until finally, finally Dean drags his eyes away from the sink and manages to meet Sam’s eyes in the mirror.
“Dean?” Sam says again and when Dean blinks in response Sam doesn’t see only hellfire reflected back at him. “You cut yourself shaving,” he explains.
Dean’s lower lip twitches; in between his teeth and out before he can bite down. His hand is trembling when he raises it to the gash that runs about an inch long, just above his jugular.
“Oh…” he says quietly. His fingers dab at the blood that’s already congealing until the cut opens up again. “’s not so bad.”
And then he pushes; digs his fingernail into the wound and Sam almost reaches out to stop him, but there is a flash of something across Dean’s face and his breathing suddenly grows easier.
His eyes keep flickering up and down; hands, mirror, sink, Sam’s reflection.
The bathroom is a crammy piece of shit. Sam’s elbow brushes against Dean’s when he steps up to the sink, but that’s okay, some of the websites even said it might help; establishing physical contact once the actual attack is over. There were a bunch of pictures of men in uniform, burying their faces in some significant other’s hair and while Dean’s problem isn’t backfiring cars and Fourth of July fireworks, the general principle of the advice seems sound enough.
“Sit down on the bathtub, huh,” Sam suggests.
He brushes his hand along Dean’s shoulder, as Dean quietly does as he’s told. Sam tries not to think about how for twenty-five years he would have gotten his ass kicked for ever daring to speak to his brother like he’s one of Bobby's mutts, hiding from a thunderstorm under the barn.
The blood quickly washes away in the over-chlorinated water that somehow still manages to smell of copper and mildew, the dark red fades, turns pink and disappears all together.
“H’teth’f’ckin’thing,” Dean tells Sam’s back and Sam isn’t sure if he means the razor or his beard.
Dean's beard grows out slightly red the second it’s anything more than stubble. He went without shaving for a good week and a half when he first came back.
All it took was one stupid quip about half his face being soulless and the next thing Sam knew he was sitting alone in the Impala while Dean was losing his breakfast by the side of the road. (It was Dean’s own joke, too. Sam isn’t that much of an inconsiderate ass.)
“We’re getting rid of it,” Sam promises. He gives the razor a couple of quick shakes to dry it off and turns back around. “We’re buying an electric razor, okay, man?”
Dean nods, his eyes glued steadily to Sam’s hand. His shoulders are drawn up, his arms wrapped around his middle (to keep from falling apart, to keep Sam from seeing how they’re still shaking).
“Okay?” Sam asks again.
“Whatever,” Dean mumbles. He shoots Sam an irritated look which is probably a good sign. “Ge- just g-get rid of it, please.”
He juts his chin up at Sam so hard Sam can see the muscles in his jaw tighten.
“Oh…yeah, okay.”
Sam’s bad knee plops when he crouches down in front of Dean. He waits for the corresponding clack in Dean’s back when he leans forward but hears nothing.
“You should close your eyes,” he suggests when Dean keeps staring at the razor blade in Sam’s hand.
A soft scoff. “Fuck that.”
Sam’s lips twitch.
His breathing is heavy with concentration by the time he’s done with the first half of Dean’s face. He has to watch out for the tiny sharp flinches that seem to be prompted by nothing at all. It reminds him of the lab monkeys he once did a presentation on. Sophomore year, Wisconsin.
Sam isn’t sure when the humming starts. One moment it’s not there and then it is. Broken off pieces of melody; Van Halen or Clapton, Sam can never be quite sure with Dean. He watches the gash under his brother’s jaw jump up and down every time Dean’s humming rises and collapses in on itself.
Dean doesn’t stop until Sam’s back on his feet and the razor is safe in the trash can, buried under tissues and an empty bottle of shampoo.
“Yeah,” he whispers, stroking the back of his hand up and down his smooth cheek before he starts fiddling with the cut again. He looks at himself in the mirror again and Sam wonders what he sees.
“Yeah,” he echoes.
Dean’s lips are almost bloodless from the way he’s pressing them together.
“Thanks, Sammy,” he manages and his voice is stuck somewhere between hushed whisper and fake growl.
Sam swallows past the lump in his throat, puts a warm hand on Dean’s shoulder and feels the tremors calm.
“Anytime, man.”
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1000
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: In which Dean has flashbacks and Sam shaves his brother's face.
Written for si_star_x who gave me the prompt can't find my way home over at silverbullets.
There isn't even a bitten back hiss.
Just the slight click of plastic against porcelain and Sam is on his feet, his heart racing along in his throat.
The bathroom door is unlocked, thank fuck.
He finds Dean staring at the sink, his plastic razor stained ever so slightly with his own blood. There’s a cut just under Dean’s jaw, lazily leaking red into the milky white shaving cream.
“Dean?” Sam says carefully.
Dean is sucking in quick, shallow breaths of air through his mouth as he’s blinking rapidly and Sam knows, somehow Sam knows it’s not the blood and it’s not the razor, it’s Dean’s blood on a razor.
Sam has read his Bible and his Inferno, he even looked through a couple of Dean’s old Hellblazer comics during the months he spent trying to get him back, all of which gave him a pretty good idea.
And if the red juice running out of a medium burger was enough to trigger a flashback last week, then this sure as hell is.
All the websites said to avoid touching until he’s sure Dean won’t interpret it as an attack, so Sam repeats his brother’s name until finally, finally Dean drags his eyes away from the sink and manages to meet Sam’s eyes in the mirror.
“Dean?” Sam says again and when Dean blinks in response Sam doesn’t see only hellfire reflected back at him. “You cut yourself shaving,” he explains.
Dean’s lower lip twitches; in between his teeth and out before he can bite down. His hand is trembling when he raises it to the gash that runs about an inch long, just above his jugular.
“Oh…” he says quietly. His fingers dab at the blood that’s already congealing until the cut opens up again. “’s not so bad.”
And then he pushes; digs his fingernail into the wound and Sam almost reaches out to stop him, but there is a flash of something across Dean’s face and his breathing suddenly grows easier.
His eyes keep flickering up and down; hands, mirror, sink, Sam’s reflection.
The bathroom is a crammy piece of shit. Sam’s elbow brushes against Dean’s when he steps up to the sink, but that’s okay, some of the websites even said it might help; establishing physical contact once the actual attack is over. There were a bunch of pictures of men in uniform, burying their faces in some significant other’s hair and while Dean’s problem isn’t backfiring cars and Fourth of July fireworks, the general principle of the advice seems sound enough.
“Sit down on the bathtub, huh,” Sam suggests.
He brushes his hand along Dean’s shoulder, as Dean quietly does as he’s told. Sam tries not to think about how for twenty-five years he would have gotten his ass kicked for ever daring to speak to his brother like he’s one of Bobby's mutts, hiding from a thunderstorm under the barn.
The blood quickly washes away in the over-chlorinated water that somehow still manages to smell of copper and mildew, the dark red fades, turns pink and disappears all together.
“H’teth’f’ckin’thing,” Dean tells Sam’s back and Sam isn’t sure if he means the razor or his beard.
Dean's beard grows out slightly red the second it’s anything more than stubble. He went without shaving for a good week and a half when he first came back.
All it took was one stupid quip about half his face being soulless and the next thing Sam knew he was sitting alone in the Impala while Dean was losing his breakfast by the side of the road. (It was Dean’s own joke, too. Sam isn’t that much of an inconsiderate ass.)
“We’re getting rid of it,” Sam promises. He gives the razor a couple of quick shakes to dry it off and turns back around. “We’re buying an electric razor, okay, man?”
Dean nods, his eyes glued steadily to Sam’s hand. His shoulders are drawn up, his arms wrapped around his middle (to keep from falling apart, to keep Sam from seeing how they’re still shaking).
“Okay?” Sam asks again.
“Whatever,” Dean mumbles. He shoots Sam an irritated look which is probably a good sign. “Ge- just g-get rid of it, please.”
He juts his chin up at Sam so hard Sam can see the muscles in his jaw tighten.
“Oh…yeah, okay.”
Sam’s bad knee plops when he crouches down in front of Dean. He waits for the corresponding clack in Dean’s back when he leans forward but hears nothing.
“You should close your eyes,” he suggests when Dean keeps staring at the razor blade in Sam’s hand.
A soft scoff. “Fuck that.”
Sam’s lips twitch.
His breathing is heavy with concentration by the time he’s done with the first half of Dean’s face. He has to watch out for the tiny sharp flinches that seem to be prompted by nothing at all. It reminds him of the lab monkeys he once did a presentation on. Sophomore year, Wisconsin.
Sam isn’t sure when the humming starts. One moment it’s not there and then it is. Broken off pieces of melody; Van Halen or Clapton, Sam can never be quite sure with Dean. He watches the gash under his brother’s jaw jump up and down every time Dean’s humming rises and collapses in on itself.
Dean doesn’t stop until Sam’s back on his feet and the razor is safe in the trash can, buried under tissues and an empty bottle of shampoo.
“Yeah,” he whispers, stroking the back of his hand up and down his smooth cheek before he starts fiddling with the cut again. He looks at himself in the mirror again and Sam wonders what he sees.
“Yeah,” he echoes.
Dean’s lips are almost bloodless from the way he’s pressing them together.
“Thanks, Sammy,” he manages and his voice is stuck somewhere between hushed whisper and fake growl.
Sam swallows past the lump in his throat, puts a warm hand on Dean’s shoulder and feels the tremors calm.
“Anytime, man.”