Straightening Out, Settling In
Title: Straightening Out, Settling In
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: G
Pairing: Sam/Amelia
Characters: Sam, Amelia, Riot
Word count: 822
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Summary: Sam finds Amelia's hair straighteners. His curiosity gets the better of him.
Author's note: Something short and fluffy, written to a Tumblr prompt ('imagine Sam with a set of hair straighteners!')
Also on AO3
Amelia laughs at Sam when he asks, hauling himself upright from the cardboard box that he’s just dumped on their new bedroom floor. “Haven’t you ever seen straighteners before?” she asks him. Sam hasn’t, of course. Personal grooming’s never been particularly high on his list. As long as he’s clean and there are no obvious holes in his clothing, that’s enough.
Anyway, he’s pretty sure these are a girl thing. He says as much, and Amelia rolls her eyes. “Coming from a guy with hair like yours,” she says, “that’s a little bit rich.”
She takes the tongs out of his hand, stashes them at the back of her bedside cabinet. “I don’t know why I still have them, really,” she says. “My hair’s much better curly.” Sam agrees. He twists a tendril of it around his finger, and kisses her, and they forget about the straighteners and everything else.
A few days later, though, Amelia’s at work, Riot is sleeping and Sam is bored. He paces through the house, through rooms half-furnished with their limited combined possessions. He hasn’t had anything like this since Jess, that squashed student apartment stuffed with paintings and textbooks and plants, the jumble of two years together. This house still feels empty. But it’s OK. They’ll fill it up.
Still, he’s restless in it at the moment. There’s nothing to fix, nothing to do. Sam knows that it’s these moments that are dangerous; when he finds his thoughts slipping back, not just to Jess and their burnt-out home but to everybody else, the long parade of the people he’s lost. He paces some more, strides back through the bedroom and catches sight of the straighteners sitting innocuous where they were left.
Sam looks around. On the bed, curled up where he shouldn’t be, Riot snores.
Why not? Sam figures, jabbing out a sneaky hand to pick up the tongs.
It takes him a little while to figure out what he’s doing - with the help of a nasty burning smell from the hair at the back of his head. Turns out you have to keep these things moving. Like an iron. He’s ironing his hair. Sam sits on the bed, cross-legged, straightening, trying to imagine what Dean would say if he could see him now. The thought hurts but it’s starting to feel a little less painful; a warm kind of memory under the ache.
Come on, Sam thinks. He keeps straightening, sliding the flat of the irons away from his scalp. Turns out that without its natural bounce, his hair’s kind of long. Longer than he’s ever kept it before; but why not? It’s not like he’s going to have to pretend to be FBI again any time soon.
He’s just finishing up when the front door sounds. Riot twitches, shakes alert, hops off the bed. His feet pitter patter across the wooden floorboards and Sam hears Amelia shaking off her shoes, padding back towards the bedroom with Riot in tow. “Sam?” she calls, and Sam can hear the worry in her voice. Last time she came home after leaving him here all day he’d been sitting in the dark, running his thumb over the surface of Dean’s lighter, another object uncovered in the move.
"In here," he says, and she’s in the doorway, eyes cautious and wide.
When she sees his hair, though, they crinkle in amusement and she starts to laugh. At first it’s just a giggle, a smile, but soon she’s helpless and wheezing, sliding down the doorframe, scarcely able to fend off the overexcited dog licking at her face. Riot, predictably, thinks it’s a game.
"Sam," she gasps. "What in Christ have you done?"
Sam’s lips tug tight. He can feel himself dimpling. “Don’t I look pretty?” he says.
Amelia howls.
Sam stands to look in the mirror over their dresser. Pretty? Not so much. No wonder Amelia’s laughing. He looks like some weird kind of doll, hair too flat and his ear pointing through it. Actually, with those ears, maybe the overall look isn’t a doll, but an elf, from Lord of the Rings.
He’s grinning now, he can’t help it. Aware of Amelia in the corner of his eye, he primps and pouts, showing off his cheekbones, angling his face.
"Stop it," wails Amelia, hysterical. "This isn’t fair."
Sam spins on his heel, raises his eyebrows. “Too fabulous for you?” he asks.
"I can’t cope with this," she says; "I’m going to hose you down."
She dives for the bathroom and Sam steps backwards, bouncing on the balls of his feet. It’s not long before she’s out with a dripping sponge in hand and he’s off, running through the rooms, Amelia sliding after him in her socked feet and Riot tangling and barking around his legs. As they crash into a heap against the stairs, Sam thinks, yeah. It’s not all the way there yet, but it’s something like home.
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: G
Pairing: Sam/Amelia
Characters: Sam, Amelia, Riot
Word count: 822
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Summary: Sam finds Amelia's hair straighteners. His curiosity gets the better of him.
Author's note: Something short and fluffy, written to a Tumblr prompt ('imagine Sam with a set of hair straighteners!')
Also on AO3
Amelia laughs at Sam when he asks, hauling himself upright from the cardboard box that he’s just dumped on their new bedroom floor. “Haven’t you ever seen straighteners before?” she asks him. Sam hasn’t, of course. Personal grooming’s never been particularly high on his list. As long as he’s clean and there are no obvious holes in his clothing, that’s enough.
Anyway, he’s pretty sure these are a girl thing. He says as much, and Amelia rolls her eyes. “Coming from a guy with hair like yours,” she says, “that’s a little bit rich.”
She takes the tongs out of his hand, stashes them at the back of her bedside cabinet. “I don’t know why I still have them, really,” she says. “My hair’s much better curly.” Sam agrees. He twists a tendril of it around his finger, and kisses her, and they forget about the straighteners and everything else.
A few days later, though, Amelia’s at work, Riot is sleeping and Sam is bored. He paces through the house, through rooms half-furnished with their limited combined possessions. He hasn’t had anything like this since Jess, that squashed student apartment stuffed with paintings and textbooks and plants, the jumble of two years together. This house still feels empty. But it’s OK. They’ll fill it up.
Still, he’s restless in it at the moment. There’s nothing to fix, nothing to do. Sam knows that it’s these moments that are dangerous; when he finds his thoughts slipping back, not just to Jess and their burnt-out home but to everybody else, the long parade of the people he’s lost. He paces some more, strides back through the bedroom and catches sight of the straighteners sitting innocuous where they were left.
Sam looks around. On the bed, curled up where he shouldn’t be, Riot snores.
Why not? Sam figures, jabbing out a sneaky hand to pick up the tongs.
It takes him a little while to figure out what he’s doing - with the help of a nasty burning smell from the hair at the back of his head. Turns out you have to keep these things moving. Like an iron. He’s ironing his hair. Sam sits on the bed, cross-legged, straightening, trying to imagine what Dean would say if he could see him now. The thought hurts but it’s starting to feel a little less painful; a warm kind of memory under the ache.
Come on, Sam thinks. He keeps straightening, sliding the flat of the irons away from his scalp. Turns out that without its natural bounce, his hair’s kind of long. Longer than he’s ever kept it before; but why not? It’s not like he’s going to have to pretend to be FBI again any time soon.
He’s just finishing up when the front door sounds. Riot twitches, shakes alert, hops off the bed. His feet pitter patter across the wooden floorboards and Sam hears Amelia shaking off her shoes, padding back towards the bedroom with Riot in tow. “Sam?” she calls, and Sam can hear the worry in her voice. Last time she came home after leaving him here all day he’d been sitting in the dark, running his thumb over the surface of Dean’s lighter, another object uncovered in the move.
"In here," he says, and she’s in the doorway, eyes cautious and wide.
When she sees his hair, though, they crinkle in amusement and she starts to laugh. At first it’s just a giggle, a smile, but soon she’s helpless and wheezing, sliding down the doorframe, scarcely able to fend off the overexcited dog licking at her face. Riot, predictably, thinks it’s a game.
"Sam," she gasps. "What in Christ have you done?"
Sam’s lips tug tight. He can feel himself dimpling. “Don’t I look pretty?” he says.
Amelia howls.
Sam stands to look in the mirror over their dresser. Pretty? Not so much. No wonder Amelia’s laughing. He looks like some weird kind of doll, hair too flat and his ear pointing through it. Actually, with those ears, maybe the overall look isn’t a doll, but an elf, from Lord of the Rings.
He’s grinning now, he can’t help it. Aware of Amelia in the corner of his eye, he primps and pouts, showing off his cheekbones, angling his face.
"Stop it," wails Amelia, hysterical. "This isn’t fair."
Sam spins on his heel, raises his eyebrows. “Too fabulous for you?” he asks.
"I can’t cope with this," she says; "I’m going to hose you down."
She dives for the bathroom and Sam steps backwards, bouncing on the balls of his feet. It’s not long before she’s out with a dripping sponge in hand and he’s off, running through the rooms, Amelia sliding after him in her socked feet and Riot tangling and barking around his legs. As they crash into a heap against the stairs, Sam thinks, yeah. It’s not all the way there yet, but it’s something like home.