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runedgirl: Sam/Dean, holiday memory that would only be meaningful for the two of them (and quite possibly just plain weird for anyone else), that sparks a moment of affection in the present. R.
Dean leaned his head over the sink, waiting as Sam snipped a few last strands. He hadn’t expected Sam to offer when he’d said, “Remember when we used to cut each other’s hair?” but saying yes had seemed important, a way to tell Sam something without having to use words.
Sam’s body was a warm presence behind him. They weren’t touching, except when Sam flicked a tickling bit of hair off of Dean’s neck or away from his temples, but he felt surrounded by Sam anyway. The mirror was still steamed up from their earlier showers. There was nothing else in the world, not even the cheap motel room just outside the door.
“I’ll do you next,” Dean said, when the silence was too full for him to stand any more.
He could hear the smile in Sam’s voice when Sam said, “Nah, I don’t think so,” and put the scissors down on the counter while his free hand landed warm and solid on Dean’s hip.
“What,” Dean said, even though he was already starting to get hard, “don’t you trust me with your lush locks?”
“I don’t trust you to order my lunch,” Sam said, cupping his hand around Dean’s pec while continuing to squeeze Dean’s hip. “You set my hair on fire.”
That hadn’t been purpose, not exactly. Just, it had been getting long and Sam had already started up with the ‘it’s my body and you can’t tell me what to do’ blah blah blah. So Dean had wanted to force the issue, and how better to do that than to make Sam even out a singed patch? Except, how was he supposed to know that Sam had, despite his mockery of Dean’s own highly successful efforts to look good for the ladies, embraced a hair gel that—while not in any way taming Sam’s mane—turned out to be highly flammable?
Sam had spent that Christmas both stinking (burnt hair was a nasty and pervasive smell, and Dean could say that with the authority of someone who dug up decaying bodies on a regular basis) and fuming. It probably hadn’t helped that Dean’s last minute gift had been a rasta-style knit cap to cover up the nearly-bald patches. Or that Dad had approved of Dean’s tactics, even if he’d banished them to a different room because of the stench.
Now, so many years later, Dean pshawed and subtly thrust his hips back, bumping up against Sam’s own erection. “And if I was goin’ at you with a lighter, maybe that oughta worry you more. You’re just afraid you might lose a few pounds of hair if I have my way with you.”
“You are made of bullshit,” Sam said, admiringly though, as he tweaked Dean’s nipple with his fingers and simultaneously started tugging Dean’s boxers down past his hips. Excellent multi-tasker, his Sam, Dean thought as he gave Sam some help with the latter task, and also arched his head back so that he was leaning on Sam’s shoulder.
Later, they had another shower—cut hair was prickly, and there were some places you didn’t want it no matter how much fun you’d had getting it there—and Dean threatened Sam with the scissors again, when he was sleeping if he didn’t submit while he was awake. But Sam only laughed and said, “If you haven’t taken your chance in the last few years, I’m not too worried about it now.”
And for some reason, that made Dean’s heart seize right up, so that he had to turn away before Sam commented on his reaction. Dean kind of thought Sam’d noticed anyway; either that or he was in the mood to snuggle already.
Dean could suffer through that, for the greater good.
runedgirl: Sam/Dean, holiday memory that would only be meaningful for the two of them (and quite possibly just plain weird for anyone else), that sparks a moment of affection in the present. R.Dean leaned his head over the sink, waiting as Sam snipped a few last strands. He hadn’t expected Sam to offer when he’d said, “Remember when we used to cut each other’s hair?” but saying yes had seemed important, a way to tell Sam something without having to use words.
Sam’s body was a warm presence behind him. They weren’t touching, except when Sam flicked a tickling bit of hair off of Dean’s neck or away from his temples, but he felt surrounded by Sam anyway. The mirror was still steamed up from their earlier showers. There was nothing else in the world, not even the cheap motel room just outside the door.
“I’ll do you next,” Dean said, when the silence was too full for him to stand any more.
He could hear the smile in Sam’s voice when Sam said, “Nah, I don’t think so,” and put the scissors down on the counter while his free hand landed warm and solid on Dean’s hip.
“What,” Dean said, even though he was already starting to get hard, “don’t you trust me with your lush locks?”
“I don’t trust you to order my lunch,” Sam said, cupping his hand around Dean’s pec while continuing to squeeze Dean’s hip. “You set my hair on fire.”
That hadn’t been purpose, not exactly. Just, it had been getting long and Sam had already started up with the ‘it’s my body and you can’t tell me what to do’ blah blah blah. So Dean had wanted to force the issue, and how better to do that than to make Sam even out a singed patch? Except, how was he supposed to know that Sam had, despite his mockery of Dean’s own highly successful efforts to look good for the ladies, embraced a hair gel that—while not in any way taming Sam’s mane—turned out to be highly flammable?
Sam had spent that Christmas both stinking (burnt hair was a nasty and pervasive smell, and Dean could say that with the authority of someone who dug up decaying bodies on a regular basis) and fuming. It probably hadn’t helped that Dean’s last minute gift had been a rasta-style knit cap to cover up the nearly-bald patches. Or that Dad had approved of Dean’s tactics, even if he’d banished them to a different room because of the stench.
Now, so many years later, Dean pshawed and subtly thrust his hips back, bumping up against Sam’s own erection. “And if I was goin’ at you with a lighter, maybe that oughta worry you more. You’re just afraid you might lose a few pounds of hair if I have my way with you.”
“You are made of bullshit,” Sam said, admiringly though, as he tweaked Dean’s nipple with his fingers and simultaneously started tugging Dean’s boxers down past his hips. Excellent multi-tasker, his Sam, Dean thought as he gave Sam some help with the latter task, and also arched his head back so that he was leaning on Sam’s shoulder.
Later, they had another shower—cut hair was prickly, and there were some places you didn’t want it no matter how much fun you’d had getting it there—and Dean threatened Sam with the scissors again, when he was sleeping if he didn’t submit while he was awake. But Sam only laughed and said, “If you haven’t taken your chance in the last few years, I’m not too worried about it now.”
And for some reason, that made Dean’s heart seize right up, so that he had to turn away before Sam commented on his reaction. Dean kind of thought Sam’d noticed anyway; either that or he was in the mood to snuggle already.
Dean could suffer through that, for the greater good.
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