Characters: Sam, Dean, John.
Pairing: Sam/Dean (Light)
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Dean gives Sam a haircut.
Sam holds his breath and tries not to squirm as a shiver rolls down his spine. The hum of the clippers is loud in his ear and the roof of his mouth tingles when they touch his skull.
"Hold still," Dean tells him before tilting his head further to the side. A strong breath of air blows the stray pieces of loose hair into the chilly Nevada night. Dean's hand follows soon after, brushing through the new fuzz while knocking away the stubborn strands.
Sam's throat clears as he tries to cover the low groan he can’t help but make. He feels Dean’s huff of laughter on the back of his neck and clears his throat again, louder this time.
“Forward,” Dean instructs him and Sam lowers his head. The tingling feeling in his mouth spreads to his throat as Dean shaves another stripe.
Sam’s enthralled by the way the blood-matted hair just drops past his bare legs and collects at his feet while the clean hair flutters, catching on invisible wind and scattering.
Sam and Dean both suck in breaths through their noses when the clippers catch on a scab. The clippers touch and go around the edge of the scab lightly, removing the hair while trying not to rip off the dried blood.
Sam lets his head drop backwards and his eyes slide shut. If he breathes evenly, he can hear the shower still running - his father’s probably still cleaning his own wounds - and Dean’s humming something softly and off-key under his breath.
A car backfires somewhere in the parking lot and Sam jumps slightly, just enough for the clippers to sting a little as they bite into soft flesh. Dean’s thumb swipes over the razor-burnt skin and Sam allows his head to loll slightly, resting it against his brother’s careful hands.
They stay like that for a moment, silent and touching carelessly, before Dean goes back to his job.
“Left. Your other left, Sam.” Sam resists, as always, the urge to crack his neck when forced at this awkward angle, ear nearly flat against his shoulder. Dean’s fingers push and press and fold Sam’s right ear as he rids Sam of his sideburns and all the other hair around it.
Dean does one more pass all over his shorn head to make sure all of Sam’s fuzz is the same length, that there are no patches of inch-long hair or bald spots hiding from Dean’s sight.
Cool bursts of air trail warm hands down Sam’s neck, shoulders, back and chest. Stray hair tickles and flutters as Dean brushes them off Sam’s naked flesh; Sam tries to clear his thoughts while he brushes away the hair clinging to his shorts.
Dean’s hands flutter down Sam’s back lightly and Sam tries, and fails, not to still. His muscles tighten and heat floods his body, he can feel his stomach start to shake in that familiar and slightly uncomfortable way.
Sam works his throat and jaw, trying to get rid of the cottony, clammy feeling in his mouth. He leans forward with the pretense of brushing stray hairs off his scalp and it backfires horribly. Dean’s hands are there in a second, running over his scalp and rubbing lightly.
Sam’s tired, and cold. His body aches and his muscles are sore. He lets his head drop forward and doesn’t even try to cover the moan that slips out. Sam squeezes his eyes closed and his breathes come out in harsh pants as Dean’s fingers start to rub harder.
Sam ignores the sharp feeling of shame that hits him when he arches his head back and exposes the line of his neck. Sam’s hands grip his thighs and his heart pounds in his chest as Dean’s hands slip down.
“Dean,” Sam whispers quietly as Dean’s thumb traces the underside of his jaw. Sam licks his lips and hears his brother make some kind of whimpering sound. With his eyes still closed, he nudges his mouth upwards and his lips meet his brother’s.
The sound of the bathroom door opening is like a bucket of ice water dumped directly in his lap. In an instant, Dean is gone. Sam looks behind him and sees him backing away until his back hits the doorjamb leading into the room. His eyes are wild, scared, and his hands are shaking lightly at his sides.
The blood is still roaring in Sam’s ears when he hears his father’s voice. Dean’s entire demeanor changes and he answers back to whatever their father has just said. Dean doesn’t look at Sam when he picks the clippers back up and walks into the room.
The shame and disgust and self-loathing hit Sam like a fist to the stomach.
Sam leans forward and counts to a thousand.
By two hundred and nineteen, he’s good enough to move. He walks into their room, nods in his father’s general direction and climbs right into bed. He desperately wishes that he’ll be asleep by the time Dean’s done with his shower and secretly hopes that he’ll still be awake.