It was a shock, seeing what Dean had done to his hair.
Even still reeling from Dad's sudden gain and then loss, Sam couldn't help but notice. Freshly showered from a morning run, sitting at the table with a cup of coffee, Sam stared as Dean came into the kitchen. He hadn't had it that short in...jeez, he didn't even remember how long it'd been.
"Y-you...cut your hair," Sam stated after a speechless couple of seconds.
"Yep."
Sam watched Dean as he moved around the kitchen, seeing angle after angle of him. He kept expecting him to be butchered, but it looked surprisingly good, and he couldn't help wondering how long he'd spent on it. Cut so close on the back and sides it was nearly shaved, tapering up to a short brush on top, with only a quarter-inch of length or so keeping it from being a military haircut. It was longest in front, swept up with gel.
"You already go for a run?" Dean asked, glancing over his shoulder and startling Sam out of his staring.
"Yeah."
Same as every morning since Dean crushed the pearl, Sam had gone out hoping it would clear his head, and just come back more awake so he could double down on everything eating him steadily alive from the inside out. Mom. The alternate-timeline versions of themselves, especially him. The yawning gulf of space that had opened up between him and Dean practically the second the bunker was once again down a Winchester.
There was something odd in the way Dean was moving. Practiced, careful. Sam could all but taste the rawness in the air, see the torn, throbbing wound still dumping blood out of Dean. He could have had half a brain and still known better than to ask what was going on.
"So...your hair." Sam cleared his throat. "How come you didn't have me help?"
"Can cut it myself," Dean answered shortly. He splashed coffee into his cup, aggressive. "Done it plenty before."
Sam flinched a little, that particular hurt especially tender lately. Dean either missed or ignored it.
Dean brought the coffee to his nose, sniffed it. He dumped the cup out and grabbed the filters and the grounds, getting to work on brewing a pot of plain. Sam swallowed. He'd gone for flavored. Glazed doughnut, Dean's favorite. He'd thought that maybe, it would help. He probably should have known better.
Dad, after all, hadn't ever had time for anything but strong and black.
While the coffee percolated, Dean was getting down a frying pan, turning the oven on, laying strips of bacon along the bottom. Sam almost didn't realize he was talking to him when he asked, an edge to his voice, "Want any?"
"Oh." Sam made himself shake his head. "No."
Dean snorted. Not the usual playful one that came out whenever he was reminded of the fact Sam had cut out pork. This one was harsh, derisive. And so familiar it made the next breath Sam sucked in burn.
"Your hair," he tried again a few seconds later, wondering the whole time if he shouldn't.
"Goddamn, dude, why are you so obsessed with my fucking hair?" A spatula scraped combatively along the bottom of the pan.
"It's just. Really short." Sam paused. "Really short."
"Yep." Dean agreed like he didn't want to talk about it anymore. "Gotta keep freaks from getting a handful, don't I?"
Sam said nothing. His own hair, still damp, seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, dragging on his scalp like it was about to peel it right off his skull.
Neither of them said anything for the next few minutes. Dean poured himself a cup of coffee when it was done, plated his bacon, stood eating and drinking at the counter, on the other side of the kitchen from Sam. Sam numbly nursed at his own coffee, rich with creamer he barely tasted. They only looked up when Mom came in.
"Something smells good," she commented, leaning in to snag a few strips of bacon from Dean's plate. He let her. She crunched into them as she headed for the coffee. Looked like she was on her way out, jeans and flannel and boots on, hair pinned up even though it was already short. If she'd found a case, she hadn't told them, but it wasn't like that was anything new.
She hadn't stopped moving, not since the pearl. Sam didn't feel like it was really his place to say anything about it. Not when she'd always been closer to Dean, anyway. Not when his own house was so out of order.
"So." Mom turned, counter fitting into the small of her back as she leaned against it, and took a long pull from her coffee. Black, two sugars. "I noticed you boys slept in...separate rooms. Again."
Her voice was so measured, controlled. Sam was pretty positive he knew what she was trying to keep from slipping through. She hadn't come right out and said anything to them when they gave up on trying to shield her, but she hadn't had to, feelings obvious. It was clear where Dean had gotten that particular personality trait from, at least.
Sam didn't blame her. He wouldn't let himself. Didn't want to fall down that rabbithole when he already had a couple centuries' worth of ugly feelings chewing away at him. They didn't need company.
"Anything you want to talk about?" Mom asked, just a little strained.
"Nope." Dean flashed her a smile. "We're golden. Right, Sam?"
"Yeah." Sam offered up his own smile. It felt tight and strange on his face. "Yeah, we're fine. Thanks."
He looked briefly at Dean, who wasn't looking at him. As soon as he looked away though, he felt Dean's eyes. They were gone by the time he looked back.
Mom nodded. "Okay. Good to hear." She drained her coffee, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Well, I better get going...Dean, did you cut your hair?"
"Uh huh."
"It looks good." Mom offered up a second nod, this one genuinely approving.
Dean smiled as she left, in a way that was plenty familiar to Sam, but miles from comforting.
It was hours later Sam caught up to Dean in the armory. He was surrounded by guns, knives, weapons stolen from or willingly offered by the British chapter of the Men of Letters, objects scavenged from their own bunker. Brushes, oil, patches, vises, whetstones, screwdrivers, manuals. Sam just stood in the doorway for a while, watched Dean move, the light and natural motion of fingers that had always looked too thick for such delicate work.
He wondered if he'd ever told him what a simple joy it was, to see him clean and repair weapons and devices, moving like he was getting little flashes of divine insight every three seconds that told him exactly what to do. Probably not, or else Dean would have definitely made fun of him for it. Sam thought maybe he should have told him anyway.
"What're you doing?" he asked softly.
Dean must not have known he was there. The tension in his shoulders, all the usual plus some new, ground even tighter.
"What's it look like?"
Sam waited a second, took a breath. "You don't have to do that right now."
"Never get done if I don't."
Sam took another breath, this one much slower, much deeper, kept going until electric pain zipped across the spaces between his ribs. There were a lot of things he wanted to say. He'd even written some of them down before he came to find Dean. The only one that didn't get stuck in his throat though, dragging on its own barbs and dangerous possibilities, was, "Remember when you got your ear pierced?"
That got Dean to look at him. Finally.
"Yeah," he agreed, machete in his hands. "Gold ring. I really thought I was the shit."
Sam searched for even the ghost of a smirk on his mouth, found nothing.
"D'you remember what happened?"
"Yeah, Dad let me keep it in - "
"Made you keep it in," Sam interjected.
" - 'til a...son of a bitch, what was it? Selkie? Kelpie? Whatever, that crazy water bitch, she ripped it right out."
Dean reached up to touch the lobe that had once been a little ragged, halves once slightly misaligned. A dozen resurrections had polished out the scar, set the memory in place. Sam nodded.
"Yep." Another breath, sucked loudly in. "That was Dad for you."
"I needed to learn a lesson." Dean shrugged one-shouldered, looked down at the machete. Sam studied him for a bit before he spoke again.
"Did Dad seem...different, to you?" Sam asked. It felt like running headfirst down a hill he already knew was too steep, feeling himself lose his legs to momentum, seeing rocks rushing up at him. "When you - "
"I can't do this right now," Dean interrupted flatly.
"Okay," Sam agreed, nodding, "but I'm wondering if the pearl didn't, y'know, sense that what you wanted wasn't actually - "
Dean looked at him again, and Sam realized maybe it wasn't a good idea to push things while his hands were full of weapons. He swallowed.
"I'm sorry."
Dean turned away from him. Sam watched him, seconds ticking by, gathering up into a minute, then two, then five, ten, fifteen. Dean held himself stiff and awkward, painfully aware of being watched, and Sam knew that he should leave. He didn't, though.
"Y'know, all the times you were cutting my hair, you could've cut it short, but you didn't," he pointed out. That made Dean pause.
"Huh?"
"When you cut my hair," Sam explained. "You've got the scissors, the clippers...sometimes, I'm not paying attention. Sometimes I'm even kinda out of it. I mean, especially during the Trials, you could've shaved me bald and I'm not sure I would've even noticed for a few hours."
Dean sucked in a hitching breath himself, and Sam realized he shouldn't have mentioned the Trials. He was just really on a roll today. No sense stopping now.
"But you didn't," Sam said softly. "You never did. No matter how many times I've gotten grabbed by it, gotten stuff in it, o-or you've made fun of me for it. You've never cut it off."
"So?"
Sam didn't answer. Another couple minutes passed before he told Dean, "I get it, you know."
"Get what?"
Sam didn't answer that, either. "There's more to life than. Y'know. This." He gestured. "Hunting." He almost added Dad, stopped himself at the last second.
"Not for us." Dean's response sounded and felt automatic, rote. Perfectly practiced as thumbing back the hammer.
"You think he taught us that?" Sam asked quietly. "You really think that's what he'd want for us, deep down?"
"Sam, I'm only gonna tell you this once more," Dean said flatly. "I can't do this."
"Then I'll only ask you once more," Sam countered. "You think that's what Dad would want for us? Honestly?"
Dean waited a beat, then cleared his throat. He wasn't looking at Sam when he roughly said, "Think he probably never would've wanted a lotta stuff for us."
Sam swallowed.
"We got hunting." Dean laid it out as a hard, dry fact. Vampires could walk in sunlight. Silver killed werewolves. Kelpies grabbed earrings. "'S what we're meant for, what we got. Not much else."
"Don't we?" Sam asked, so quiet Dean might not have heard him, after years and years of gunshots and hard-rock hotboxing in the car. But he knew he did. Even if he didn't reply.
Sam pushed off the doorframe. "I get it," he told Dean again, before he left. "Take all the time you need. I'll be waiting." He paused, back to the armory. "And...thanks."
"For what?"
"My hair. I don't know. For being you, dude." Sam left.
It was a shock, Dean coming to Sam's room that night. Almost as big of one as his hair had been that morning.
Sam did his best not to let it show, thought he might have gotten away with it in the dark, but for all the surety he'd tried to project earlier and now, a small part of him had kept running over Dad. His coming back. The shapes he'd worked into their adult selves when they were still young enough to be molded. Mom. Dean's hair. And that small part had been so rock-solid sure Dean was never coming back again. They'd slogged together through forty Bibles' worth of apocalypses, but this would be the thing that broke them.
Even if he did come back, Sam hadn't thought at all it would be so soon. But here he was.
Dean climbed into Sam's bed, wearing an old T-shirt that might have been Sam's and a pair of pajama bottoms, and Sam put an arm over him. Held him, spooned him. The way Dean needed him to sometimes. The way Sam wished he'd let him do more often.
"Mom see you?" Sam asked soft against the back of Dean's head. Short, soft bristles tickled the very tip of his nose.
"Snuck around her."
"That's okay."
"I just don't wanna upset her," Dean defended, a little fire in his voice.
"I said it was okay, Dean."
They laid there in the quiet for a while. Sam wondered how anybody could ever think what they had together was wrong when they fit together like this, hip to hip, chest to back, skull to face. Like somebody perfectly sculpted them in all the stages they'd been through to fit into each other like a barrel into a frame.
Sam already knew the answer when he asked Dean, "D'you wanna talk now?"
"No," Dean said, same as he pretty much always did, and Sam got the feeling that if he said anything else, he'd roll right out of bed and leave.
So Sam didn't say anything else as they listened to the noises of the bunker. The sound of their mother's boots, still oddly jarring. Castiel's comforting rhythms. Sam felt Dean's heartbeat inside the hollow spaces in his own body, and there was so much more he wanted to convey, but he couldn't talk. So he kissed the back of Dean's neck, the tapering ridge where a major tendon ran down from his skull.
"Don't really wanna do that either, Sammy," Dean grumbled out.
"All right."
But he didn't sound like he had this morning. That kind of voice Sam used to hear all the time when they were teenagers, had listened to Dean retreat into over and over again, that had spurred him out the door the night he left for Stanford. Because the last thing he needed was two Dads yelling at him.
Dean sounded like himself. So Sam kissed his neck again.
"Knock it off," Dean muttered. But he didn't move away.
"Okay," Sam agreed, and kissed him yet again. This time, Dean didn't even bother saying anything.
Sam pressed his hand to Dean's stomach, dragged it slowly down to dip under his shirt. His knuckle swelled through a hole in the overwashed fabric, one in a familiar place. This was definitely Sam's shirt, and an almost painful thud of his heart flooded him with warmth. But of course they dressed the same nowadays. So it could have just been an accident.
Sam planted a feathery trail of kisses down the line of Dean's neck, onto the curve of his shoulder, drinking in the smell and feel of him.
Once Sam had his hand spread flat across Dean's belly, the skin-on-skin contact seemed to do something to him. Dean shifted, sucking in a deep breath that came out in an irritated little growl Sam saw right through. He went lower. Dean's stomach wasn't as flat as it had been in his younger days, but there was something about the comfort and the proof of age that the softness provided, and it had an effect on Sam hard muscle never could. His fingertips met mussed, wiry hair, and he dove deeper, until he found Dean's cock.
It was half hard already, and his own was getting there. He knew Dean could feel it pressing into the cleft of his ass, which rested snugly against Sam's groin. Same as always, the position easy and automatic.
Sam took the familiar weight of Dean's cock in his hand even as he mouthed at his neck. He almost knew Dean's dick better than his own, knew exactly how to get it to full length, sliding loose and teasing up the shaft and thumbing the head. He thought about pulling off Dean's pants and boxers, but that felt too much like peeling back a pair of protective layers they both needed right now. Not to mention he'd rather not have the mess he planned on milking out of Dean splattered all over his sheets.
Dean grunted, the noise already heavy with sex, and pressed back against Sam. Not just his hips, either. He rocked his whole body into him, solid and comforting, like he wanted closer, and Sam brought up his other arm to hold him across the chest. With all of Dean laying right on his bicep, it'd be dead pretty soon, but he didn't care. Sam panted, grinding into Dean.
Dean had always had a downright incredible ass, and Sam hadn't realized until now how much he'd missed this particular part of him.
Sam didn't want to stop. But his hands were a patchwork of scars and calluses, same as Dean's, and if he kept going the way he was, things were going to stop being good and start being painful very, very soon. He knew that from unfortunate experience. But he didn't want to pull away from Dean even the small bit it would take to roll over and grab the lube out of his nightstand, so Sam just pulled his hand free as he kissed his way to Dean's ear.
"Spit," he ordered him, a little surprised how rough his own voice came out. "...unless you're not in the mood?"
"Can it," Dean replied, just as husky. "Bitch."
"Then spit, jerk."
Dean did, eagerly. Sam could visualize his cheeks hollowing as he worked it up, full lips shining in the darkness as he spat into Sam's cupped palm. Sam shifted a little so he could do the same, plenty worked up from all the kissing. Then he brought his hand back down so he could wrap it wetly around Dean's cock.
He jerked steadily at him, even as he moved his hips against Dean's ass, only fabric keeping their skin apart. He knew how Dean liked it, had known for a whole decade and the better part of a second. Dean was panting hard, little groans slipping out of him, and Sam nuzzled the nape of his neck, the shape of his skull, hair so much shorter than he'd gotten used to it being, just fuzz against his skin, so soft his stubble caught on it.
He could tell Dean was trying to be quiet. That and the pitch blackness of the room and the hair had Sam feeling like they were young again, really young, Dad passed out drunk only a bed away and one of them supposed to be on the couch or the floor, both knowing he was out until noon the next day but still terrified of waking him. The only difference was that back then, Sam was where Dean was now, because he didn't know yet Dean might need what he was giving him. It wouldn't even cross his mind until much, much later, too late, and that was one of Sam's biggest regrets.
Sam hooked one thigh over Dean's legs possessively, protectively, taking advantage of his greater size, nipping at Dean now. Still grinding, but harder, solidly-built bedframe finally starting to squeak under them. Sam was half on top of Dean as he jerked him off, half pretend-fucking him into the bed, but Dean wasn't pushing him off. He was just breathing faster, making lower, deeper noises, and Sam matched the rhythm on the thick cock in his hand.
He didn't think about Dad, or Mom. Or he told himself he didn't, which was better than it could have been.
He wondered what Dean was thinking about.
Dean was thrusting into Sam's fist now, wet with sweat and spit from the both of them, Dean's pre running through Sam's fingers. He was growling, bucking rough against Sam, sucking in a sharp breath every time Sam's mouth met the skin of his head or his neck or his throat or his shoulder, and Sam loved him so hard it felt like a punctured lung.
He wanted to tell Dean it was okay. Wanted to tell him nothing bad was going to happen, that what they had between them was good and right and to hell with anybody who thought different, because it had saved their lives in a thousand ways through the years. And others, too. But he was also devastatingly aware that even now, there was a possibility Dean could claw his way free of him, adjust his pants, and walk out of the room without a word. It would only get bigger if Sam said anything at all. So he stayed silent except for his own frantic sex noises, muffled in Dean's skin.
Dean swore under his breath, filthy. So damn quiet. How they'd both learned to be, sharing every space they had for their entire lives. Mom was all the way on the other side of the bunker, Castiel didn't give a shit and would probably be relieved, and each room was something edging on soundproof with the concrete and the solid wood. But Sam knew it would be months before Dean let him wring a scream out of him again.
That was okay. For now, this was enough. Anything Dean was willing to give was more than Sam could possibly ask for.
Dean pumped his hips suddenly, fiercely, so hard he almost ripped himself completely free of Sam. Once, twice, three times. Sam kept hold of him, but couldn't jerk him off anymore, let him set his pace and fuck Sam's hand. Then he was coming in a wild gush, wet and sticky heat on Sam's fist, snarling as he pounded through it. Sam heard the clench and stretch of fabric as he sank his teeth into the pillow, head twisting away from him.
Dean stopped moving, entire body so tense he vibrated at a low buzz Sam felt in his bones, then slowly loosened, relaxing down into a warm puddle. Sam's right hand was all hot wetness, fingers still curled around Dean's wilting cock. He'd stopped moving himself, even as he was painfully hard. Just let Dean melt against him, under him, let his breathing quiet after he'd let go of the pillow. His cock jabbed into Dean's ass, tenting the fabric of his sweatpants, and his thighs and shoulders ached with the effort of staying still, and his arm was radio static, but Sam held, and he waited until Dean was safely in afterglow.
Sam sucked in a deep breath. He hadn't finished, but he could take care of himself. Hopefully without bothering Dean too much. He started to move, to roll off Dean, but Dean startled him by putting a hand on his hip. Then he pushed his ass very deliberately against Sam's cock. A full-body shudder rocked Sam for a solid couple seconds, and he took the invitation.
He was close. It took probably half a minute of grinding hard into Dean, hips pumping away as sweat misted in the air under the covers, to push Sam over the edge. He clenched Dean tight against him when his climax hit, ripping out from the base of his stomach and shaking both of them. He followed Dean's lead, kept himself quiet, but it was hard in the face of a hurricane-strength orgasm that left him gasping and disoriented.
It was the first time he'd come since Dad and the pearl. He just...hadn't been in the mood. Not alone.
They laid there. Sam's mouth was pressed open against Dean's neck, the back of his head. Too long-lasting and comfortable for a kiss, he wasn't really sure what it was. Dean was pressed into him. Sam cradled his soft cock gently in his hand, their messes seeping against both of them, spreading wetness that hadn't yet started to cool down. They needed to get out of bed, clean up, change, it was gross and would start getting uncomfortable sooner rather than later, and Sam knew all that. But for now, it all felt good. It felt like neither of them might ever need to move again. Like everything they needed was already right here.
They were breathing almost in perfect sync, some part of Sam noticed, a piece trained to always keep a roving scan on his immediate environment. He couldn't help wondering what their pulses were like.
Sam closed his mouth. His lips, slightly chapped, dragged along the soft bristle of Dean's hair, and Dean stirred almost uncomfortably. Sam nuzzled closer.
He'd told him earlier that he got it. He'd meant that. The horrible, crushing pressure of what they did - no, it went beyond that, into the blood and meat and breath of them, it was what they were - scraping down on every single decision they made. What to eat. What to drive. What to wear. How to look.
Hair kept too short to be grabbed a hold of. Sturdy, baggy clothes that would last a thousand washes and shed blood easy, loose enough to move and worn in protective layers. No tattoos the cops could use to identify you, or monsters. No beard, or at least a short one. No piercings.
Sam had rebelled in college. Practically his first adult decision, fiery and defiant and still laced with the tears of leaving Dean behind, had been to grow his hair out longer than Dad had ever let him have it before. Not too long, because he was still afraid. He was still afraid of piercings too, Dean's kelpie-earring fresh in his mind, so he steered clear of those. But he bought clothes he actually liked. Firmly settled. Had a girlfriend. Actually cooked (or tried) because he had the time and energy for it.
Even after he grew up, realized what he had to do, traded in the thin T-shirts and Stanford hoodies for the flannels and Carhartts of his childhood, Sam grew his hair. If he had to hunt, he was at least gonna do that. Hunting (Dad) didn't own him. Not all of him, at least. He was himself, and someday, he was going to walk away and leave all of this behind forever.
It was a promise, his hair. To himself and to Dean. It was the rebellion he comforted himself with, reminded himself of, when he wanted to scream at the top of his lungs and punch through a window and gut something nearby. A bitter pill that was at least something to swallow. And when Dad came back, he didn't even comment on it.
Sam got it, what Dean was going through. Because even though Dad hadn't even seemed to notice how long his hair was, Sam had sat in his room the night Dean crushed the pearl, staring at a pair of scissors. He'd wound up going down to the gym instead and working a punching bag until it split open. He didn't even realize he was crying, until he bent over to sweep up the sand and tears pocked it.
Dean had something, too. A token holdout. Sam was sure of it. It wasn't his hair, but of course it wasn't. Sam literally wore his, it was who he was - Dean was different and always had been. Just as defiant, maybe even moreso, but it ran deeper, and he did it for different reasons. Sam just didn't know what it was.
Dean grabbed hold of Sam's numb hand, fumbling their fingers together and squeezing hard enough he felt it in a dull pulse, and Sam realized maybe he did know what Dean's rebellion was.
Sam finally broke the silence with a soft murmur. "How're you doing?"
"Pillow feels weird," Dean replied. "Haven't had hair this short for a long time."
Sam kissed Dean's neck again.
"It'll grow back," he told him quietly.