Clean
Art Prompt Title: cold as the blood through your bones
Art link: Art Masterlist
Prompt Number: 1055
Artist: annartism
Fic Title: Clean
Author: verucasalt123
Fandom/Genre: SPN, gen
Pairing(s): none
Rating: R
Word Count: ~3250
Warnings: S7/8 spoilers, references to injury and PTSD-like symptoms
Summary: Sam’s finally got Dean back, and Dean is not happy with the scruffy look.
A/N: for this year’s spn_reversebang, written for art created by the incredibly talented annartism. Glass-clink to my endlessly patient cheerleader and beta saltandbyrne.
The only word Dean’s spoken in sixteen hours is “Sam”.
Sam has no fucking clue why this particular spell has worked when every other one he’s tried has failed. He knows only that after months of desperate searching and shady deals and one trick after another, he finally stumbled onto the one that did the job; that brought Dean back to him.
He wants to ask about Cas, because the two of them had disappeared together, but Dean had shown back up alone. Shivering and bloody, thin and broken, quiet and confused.
No point in asking anything, though, not now. Sam had tried to ask at first, but there were no answers to any of his questions. One time, just once, Dean had looked right at him and whispered, in a strangled voice, “Sam”. There hasn’t been a single other word to escape his brother’s mouth in the past...okay, so now it’s been eighteen hours.
Sam has been doing what he thought he should. Hoped maybe Dean would show some recognition at being back in the Impala, but there was nothing; a blank stare, eyes unfocused and no identifiable expression on his face at all.
After getting Dean back to his crappy studio apartment in Boulder, he was thankful that his brother took the offered bottle of water and emptied it in less than a minute. Dean was barely able to hold himself upright, though, so Sam just scooped him up and deposited him onto the mattress on the floor that had served as Sam’s bed for all this time.
And then, Dean slept.
Sam watched him sleep for fourteen hours straight. He thought he’d watch him sleep for another fourteen hours, if it meant further confirmation that his brother is here.
When Dean finally started to wake, Sam was ready, guiding him to the bathroom, into the shower. Even got in there with him, not giving a shit about them both being naked and under the spray of water, getting Dean washed up the best he could, shampooing his hair and getting him dressed in clean clothes. What Dean had been wearing when he reappeared were covered in blood and filth, shredded in some places. Sam reminds himself to hustle them out to the dumpster in the parking lot as soon as he could bear letting his brother out of his sight even for a minute.
Now, he’s ready. He’s sure of it. He’s been preparing for it, not willing to accept any notion that he couldn’t find a way to get Dean back. He’s got Dean sitting up at the little counter-island-eating space-thing in his kind-of kitchen, on a stool, which, okay, that’s not ideal, but Sam’s hopeful. Also, he’s maneuvered Dean so that he’s kind of leaning against the counter, lessening the probability that he’ll end up on the floor.
Standing on the other side, Sam has a spoonful of oatmeal, sweetened with honey, and he holds it up, saying, “Come on, Dean, please, you need to eat”. And just like that, Dean opens his mouth and accepts the food, his eyes turning upward and staring at Sam like…fuck, something, Sam doesn’t even know what that look is. But who cares, because Dean is eating the goddamn oatmeal, which he never would have before he…went wherever he had been. Purgatory was what Sam has been thinking all this time, and he figures he was probably right, otherwise attempt number forty six wouldn’t have done shit.
But attempt number forty six brought Dean back, so yeah, Purgatory, that’s the most likely guess.
Anyway, Dean’s eating it. The oatmeal. Sam’s thinking forward, hoping it’s gonna be soon when he can get his brother one of those bacon cheeseburgers he’s bitched about him eating for years. Sam doesn’t give a flying fuck about arteries and cholesterol because he’s got Dean and he will give Dean anything he wants forever and ever no matter what because Dean is here.
After the oatmeal is done, Dean drinks another full bottle of water, then looks at Sam with something that seems like asking, so Sam fills a cup from the tap in the sink. Dean drinks that too, all of it, and finally seems a little steadier.
Sam gets him off the stool and onto the piece of garbage sofa that had been left here when he moved in. Then he pulls up the strength to try and ask him some more questions.
“Dean. Do you feel any better?”
Still, that unfocused look, like he’s confused, not sure where he is, what’s happening.
“You’re with me, Dean, I found a way, I got you back, it took so fucking long and I’m sorry, so damn sorry, I can’t tell you how hard I tried.” Sam’s getting choked up, he feels it, tries to rein it in. No way he’s going to risk upsetting Dean when he’s clearly already so fragile.
The seconds turn into minutes and then Sam hears it again, just the slightest choked-out “Sam”, and he says, “Yeah, it’s me, it’s Sam, I’m here, it’s real (because he knows what it feels like when you’re not sure whether or not something is real), I swear, it’s real, you’re with me, and you’re safe.”
At the sound of the word ‘safe’, Dean startles, his eyes getting just a little more clear, but confused at the same time. He looks around, and maybe he understands where he is or maybe not, but Sam figures he doesn’t have much concept of what ‘safe’ means anymore. Like Dean doesn’t think there’s any such thing.
But there is. There is, damn it, and Sam will spend all of his days proving it to Dean if that’s what it takes to make him believe it.
Dean reaches out to Sam, grabs his arm and stares at it like it’s something foreign. Another whisper. “Safe?”
“Yeah, Dean, safe. I’ll take care of you, whatever you need, you know that. You just have to tell me. I know it’s hard for you, hard to talk, but if you can tell me, show me, anything…I’ll get you everything you need, want, whatever. Just find a way to let me know.”
Dean is tearing up a little now, and Sam doesn’t want him to cry, doesn’t want him to be sad, but maybe he’s crying because he’s relieved or happy or something, and that would be all right. It would be better than all right, it would be fantastic. He looks up at Sam, eyes wet and pleading, then moves his hand down to Sam’s hand, guiding it up to his cheek, pressing it against the heavy stubble on his face. He moves Sam’s hand back and forth across the hair on his face, shaking his head.
And yeah, it takes half a minute, but Sam gets it. “You don’t like this, of course you don’t. Never saw you going around with anything more than a five o’clock shadow. You want to shave?”
But Dean’s hands are still shaking, still so unsteady and weak.
Oh.
Dean can’t do it. He can’t even fucking feed himself, Sam thinks, you’re so goddamn stupid, you think he can shave? Jesus. This is your one damn job, idiot, take care of Dean, for once in your useless life, after all the times he’s taken care of you.
Hell, Dean had taught Sam to shave. Not John, Dean. John had probably taught Dean, unless Dean had just figured it out on his own, which was a completely viable possibility. Sam still holds a whole lot more bitterness about the way their dad had raised them than Dean ever did. He knows the two of them never saw eye to eye on that particular subject, but Sam remembers what their lives were like when he was nine or ten and he can’t envision John even thinking that maybe he ought to take a few minutes to show Dean the proper way to shave like most dads probably did with their sons.
Sam finds himself reliving the experience, he hasn’t thought of it in years, that day when Sam was barely fourteen and Dean cornered him in the motel bathroom, asking if he wanted to do something about that ‘peach fuzz’ on his lip and other random spots on his jawline and chin. Sam had thought of mentioning it, but chickened out every time. Of course, Dean knew him better, saw right through it. “I can show you, squirt, it’s about time anyway.”
So Sam just nods, smiles, and helps Dean up from the couch. “Come on, I’ll help you. You’ll feel so much better.”
And fucking hell, Dean is almost…smiling? Maybe? Surely looking at Sam like he was placing every ounce of trust he has into his younger brother. Well, that was really it, right? Sam needs to be worthy of that trust, needs to earn it, there’s no other choice now. He’s all Dean’s got.
Guiding Dean into the bathroom, Sam fills the sink with warm water, just warm, he’s so very careful to make it not too hot, not too cold, nothing that’s going to startle Dean.
Before getting started, though, a thought occurs to him. “Man, you had a lot to drink. You gotta piss?”
And fuck if Dean doesn’t get a little red, ducking his chin and shrugging his shoulders.
“Come on, man, what’s the big deal? I won’t look.” And he doesn’t. Sam turns his back, making sure Dean knows no one’s looking while he relieves himself and, strangely, puts the seat down. Hmmm. Maybe he learned that while he was with Lisa and Sam just never noticed. Not something that needs to be analyzed now, anyway.
He grabs a washcloth and soaks it, moving slowly.
“Okay, I’m just going to wet your face now before we get started.” Dean doesn’t move an inch as Sam slides the warm cloth over his cheeks, his chin, his jaw. That’s good, Sam thinks, he’s not trying to pull away, I didn’t scare him, all right…
Squirting a handful of shaving cream onto his palm, Sam continues his narration. He figures telling Dean everything he’s going to do ahead of time will lessen the possibility of freaking him out.
“Here we go, just putting on shaving cream”, Sam says, in a soft voice, “don’t want to give you razor burn.”
Shit, Dean’s eyes widened slightly at the word ‘razor’. Damn it. Sam remembers how long it was after he got out of the Cage before he was able to switch back to normal blades, insisting on using an electric shaver for months. Forget that both of them had always used a fucking straight razor, not willing to spend their limited supply of cash on some Gillette shit; Sam couldn’t even handle the feel of a crappy disposable three-blade thing from the drugstore back then.
He doesn’t have an electric shaver. Right this minute he’d sell his soul for one, not that his soul is worth anything these days. Either way, he couldn’t take Dean with him to Target to buy one, and he wasn’t about to leave him alone. “It’s all right, just this disposable Bic, it’s not gonna hurt you. I’m not gonna hurt you. Would never hurt you. Okay?”
He sees Dean close his eyes, open them again and then nod, letting out a deep exhale. So he just keeps going, covering Dean’s face with the cream, gliding it over his chin and neck. Wiping his hands on a towel, he grabs the razor and turns Dean away from the mirror so they’re face to face. Sam gets onto his knees, closes the lid of the seat and moves Dean down so that he’s sitting on the closed toilet lid, eye level for both of them.
“Close your eyes, it’s all right. Just be still and I’m gonna take care of this for you.” Dean immediately closes his eyes and Sam is shocked at the level of trust he’s been given so quickly. Maybe Dean is already much more aware than he seems of his surroundings.
This is it, no more time to stall, Sam’s got a job to do and he’s damn well going to ace it. Slowly, he slides the razor against Dean’s cheek, starting below his cheekbone and moving downward with the least amount of pressure needed to get the job done. After a couple of swipes, he rinses the blade in the sink and starts again. Dean’s left cheek is smooth now, no cuts or scrapes. Sam feels a little more comfortable as he starts in on the other side, repeating his movements on Dean’s right cheek.
Rinsing the blade in the sink again, Sam hesitates just a bit. This is the tough part, he knows. There’s no way to be sure how Dean’s going to react to having a blade held against his throat, even when, at least on some level, he knows it’s Sam and that Sam has no intention of hurting him.
And he’s right. The first touch of the razor against the underside of Dean’s jaw results in a flinch, Dean curling his fingers into fists, tensing up. Sam stops for a moment, hoping to calm his brother. “I know, I know, please, just trust me, do the best you can, give me a chance, Dean, I won’t hurt you.”
Dean seems to relax a bit at Sam’s whispered plea, so Sam starts again, shaving along Dean’s chin and neck, as gently as he possibly can. If he fucks up and nicks Dean’s skin, he’s afraid he’ll lose every bit of trust he might have gained. He’s determined to do this right. And yeah, his definition of ‘determined’ might have been described by others, including Dean, as stubborn or thickheaded or impossible, but he doesn’t care right now.
The only thing that matters is Sam getting this done, and doing it right. He moves slowly, patiently, against his nature.
Shaving is routine, it’s nothing, it’s like brushing your teeth. It takes Sam two minutes. But this is different. This is him, doing something his brother needs, and making sure there are no mistakes. So he takes his time, especially with this part. Rinses the razor in the sink again, glides the blade against the growth of hair on Dean’s throat and chin. It really is a strange thing to see. When Sam lets himself remember the first time he saw Dean after he’d been yanked out of Hell by Castiel, Dean had been completely clean-shaven. He can’t remember any time that Dean had embraced a scruffy, bearded look, even in his darkest days - mourning their dad, fighting Michael and Lucifer, losing Bobby - Dean never walked around with anything more than one day of stubble on his face.
He makes sure to get close while he’s shaving Dean’s face, all the way up to his cheekbones by his ears. While Sam may have embraced the sideburns-look, he knows Dean would never. Had Dean not been so traumatized, Sam may have left the sideburns, just to be funny.
But this isn’t funny.
“Okay Dean, this is the last bit, we’re almost done. Gotta shave your moustache now, you know what to do?”
After just a few seconds, Dean nods once, and pulls his upper lip down with his teeth, looking up at Sam with something that seems almost confident. Sam’s stomach does this wild butterfly-feeling flip-floppy thing; he imagines for one crazy second that maybe it’s like what parents feel like when they see their kid take his first unassisted step.
So very slowly, carefully, gently, Sam finishes up the almost-last part of this task, short strokes of the razor, one after the next until he’s covered the entire space from the left side of Dean’s lip to the end of the right.
Not quite done yet, though.
“Okay, be still, I’m just going to rinse off your face, make sure I didn’t miss anything.”
Thankful that the water in the sink hasn’t gone completely cold by now, Sam again slides the washcloth against his brother’s cheeks, his mouth, his chin, his throat.
And goddamn if he hasn’t done a really fucking great job. Doesn’t look like he left any spots of stubble behind, and Dean’s face is once again, as it has always been for as long as Sam can remember, completely smooth.
He sets the cloth down on the edge of the sink basin and carefully takes Dean’s hand, moving it so that Dean could feel his own skin.
“Better?” Sam asks, hopefully.
Dean is breathing a little steadier now, and looks up at Sam, nodding hesitantly. His eyes flicker up to the mirror, though.
So he wants to see it, that’s fine, that’s more than fine, it’s great, it means Dean might really understand that all of this is real.
Sam smiles and stands, giving his sore knees a break as he simultaneously gives Dean a hand up so that he can look at his own reflection. He hadn’t really been looking before, only feeling the hair on his face, knowing it was there and he didn’t want it.
There’s nothing more beautiful in the world, nothing better that has happened, ever, in the history of humanity, than Dean’s smile when he recognizes his own face in the mirror of Sam’s tiny bathroom in his shitty apartment.
Finally, fucking finally, Dean adds two more words to his post-Purgatory vocabulary. And it’s certainly not the ones that Sam is expecting. It’s just another whisper.
“Thank you.”
Sam wants to fall down onto the floor, he wants to completely lose his shit and cry all ugly and sobbing with tears and snot and no dignity whatsoever, but this isn’t the time for that.
This is the time for pretend-casual, the time for “No problem, dude”, the time for leading Dean back out to the living area and asking him if he wants anything else to eat or drink.
Every fucking word is a gift, every syllable, every sound, every second. Sam rejoices at Dean’s response of, “Still sleepy”.
“Okay, come on, let’s get you ready for some more rest.”
Sam eases Dean out of the sweats and tshirt he’d given him earlier, both so fucking gigantic that they almost swallowed him, until he has him down to just boxers. Reminds himself to get Dean’s bag from the trunk of the car so he could give him his own clothes back. Yeah, they’d still be too loose since Dean is so skinny, but not as bad as Sam’s clothes are.
Tucking the sheet and threadbare bedspread around his brother, Sam is ready to spend a few more hours sitting on the floor and watching Dean sleep when he hears more croaked-sounding words.
“Stay. Please.”
Certainly not too much to ask. Sam doesn’t hesitate for even a second before slipping under the covers next to Dean.
“I’m here. I’m here and so are you, and nobody’s going anywhere, you got that?”
Another tear is sliding down Dean’s now clean-shaven cheek. “Got. That.”
Sam stops himself from crying again, wipes the tear from Dean’s face and whispers, “Sleep as long as you need. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Art link: Art Masterlist
Prompt Number: 1055
Artist: annartism
Fic Title: Clean
Author: verucasalt123
Fandom/Genre: SPN, gen
Pairing(s): none
Rating: R
Word Count: ~3250
Warnings: S7/8 spoilers, references to injury and PTSD-like symptoms
Summary: Sam’s finally got Dean back, and Dean is not happy with the scruffy look.
A/N: for this year’s spn_reversebang, written for art created by the incredibly talented annartism. Glass-clink to my endlessly patient cheerleader and beta saltandbyrne.
The only word Dean’s spoken in sixteen hours is “Sam”.
Sam has no fucking clue why this particular spell has worked when every other one he’s tried has failed. He knows only that after months of desperate searching and shady deals and one trick after another, he finally stumbled onto the one that did the job; that brought Dean back to him.
He wants to ask about Cas, because the two of them had disappeared together, but Dean had shown back up alone. Shivering and bloody, thin and broken, quiet and confused.
No point in asking anything, though, not now. Sam had tried to ask at first, but there were no answers to any of his questions. One time, just once, Dean had looked right at him and whispered, in a strangled voice, “Sam”. There hasn’t been a single other word to escape his brother’s mouth in the past...okay, so now it’s been eighteen hours.
Sam has been doing what he thought he should. Hoped maybe Dean would show some recognition at being back in the Impala, but there was nothing; a blank stare, eyes unfocused and no identifiable expression on his face at all.
After getting Dean back to his crappy studio apartment in Boulder, he was thankful that his brother took the offered bottle of water and emptied it in less than a minute. Dean was barely able to hold himself upright, though, so Sam just scooped him up and deposited him onto the mattress on the floor that had served as Sam’s bed for all this time.
And then, Dean slept.
Sam watched him sleep for fourteen hours straight. He thought he’d watch him sleep for another fourteen hours, if it meant further confirmation that his brother is here.
When Dean finally started to wake, Sam was ready, guiding him to the bathroom, into the shower. Even got in there with him, not giving a shit about them both being naked and under the spray of water, getting Dean washed up the best he could, shampooing his hair and getting him dressed in clean clothes. What Dean had been wearing when he reappeared were covered in blood and filth, shredded in some places. Sam reminds himself to hustle them out to the dumpster in the parking lot as soon as he could bear letting his brother out of his sight even for a minute.
Now, he’s ready. He’s sure of it. He’s been preparing for it, not willing to accept any notion that he couldn’t find a way to get Dean back. He’s got Dean sitting up at the little counter-island-eating space-thing in his kind-of kitchen, on a stool, which, okay, that’s not ideal, but Sam’s hopeful. Also, he’s maneuvered Dean so that he’s kind of leaning against the counter, lessening the probability that he’ll end up on the floor.
Standing on the other side, Sam has a spoonful of oatmeal, sweetened with honey, and he holds it up, saying, “Come on, Dean, please, you need to eat”. And just like that, Dean opens his mouth and accepts the food, his eyes turning upward and staring at Sam like…fuck, something, Sam doesn’t even know what that look is. But who cares, because Dean is eating the goddamn oatmeal, which he never would have before he…went wherever he had been. Purgatory was what Sam has been thinking all this time, and he figures he was probably right, otherwise attempt number forty six wouldn’t have done shit.
But attempt number forty six brought Dean back, so yeah, Purgatory, that’s the most likely guess.
Anyway, Dean’s eating it. The oatmeal. Sam’s thinking forward, hoping it’s gonna be soon when he can get his brother one of those bacon cheeseburgers he’s bitched about him eating for years. Sam doesn’t give a flying fuck about arteries and cholesterol because he’s got Dean and he will give Dean anything he wants forever and ever no matter what because Dean is here.
After the oatmeal is done, Dean drinks another full bottle of water, then looks at Sam with something that seems like asking, so Sam fills a cup from the tap in the sink. Dean drinks that too, all of it, and finally seems a little steadier.
Sam gets him off the stool and onto the piece of garbage sofa that had been left here when he moved in. Then he pulls up the strength to try and ask him some more questions.
“Dean. Do you feel any better?”
Still, that unfocused look, like he’s confused, not sure where he is, what’s happening.
“You’re with me, Dean, I found a way, I got you back, it took so fucking long and I’m sorry, so damn sorry, I can’t tell you how hard I tried.” Sam’s getting choked up, he feels it, tries to rein it in. No way he’s going to risk upsetting Dean when he’s clearly already so fragile.
The seconds turn into minutes and then Sam hears it again, just the slightest choked-out “Sam”, and he says, “Yeah, it’s me, it’s Sam, I’m here, it’s real (because he knows what it feels like when you’re not sure whether or not something is real), I swear, it’s real, you’re with me, and you’re safe.”
At the sound of the word ‘safe’, Dean startles, his eyes getting just a little more clear, but confused at the same time. He looks around, and maybe he understands where he is or maybe not, but Sam figures he doesn’t have much concept of what ‘safe’ means anymore. Like Dean doesn’t think there’s any such thing.
But there is. There is, damn it, and Sam will spend all of his days proving it to Dean if that’s what it takes to make him believe it.
Dean reaches out to Sam, grabs his arm and stares at it like it’s something foreign. Another whisper. “Safe?”
“Yeah, Dean, safe. I’ll take care of you, whatever you need, you know that. You just have to tell me. I know it’s hard for you, hard to talk, but if you can tell me, show me, anything…I’ll get you everything you need, want, whatever. Just find a way to let me know.”
Dean is tearing up a little now, and Sam doesn’t want him to cry, doesn’t want him to be sad, but maybe he’s crying because he’s relieved or happy or something, and that would be all right. It would be better than all right, it would be fantastic. He looks up at Sam, eyes wet and pleading, then moves his hand down to Sam’s hand, guiding it up to his cheek, pressing it against the heavy stubble on his face. He moves Sam’s hand back and forth across the hair on his face, shaking his head.
And yeah, it takes half a minute, but Sam gets it. “You don’t like this, of course you don’t. Never saw you going around with anything more than a five o’clock shadow. You want to shave?”
But Dean’s hands are still shaking, still so unsteady and weak.
Oh.
Dean can’t do it. He can’t even fucking feed himself, Sam thinks, you’re so goddamn stupid, you think he can shave? Jesus. This is your one damn job, idiot, take care of Dean, for once in your useless life, after all the times he’s taken care of you.
Hell, Dean had taught Sam to shave. Not John, Dean. John had probably taught Dean, unless Dean had just figured it out on his own, which was a completely viable possibility. Sam still holds a whole lot more bitterness about the way their dad had raised them than Dean ever did. He knows the two of them never saw eye to eye on that particular subject, but Sam remembers what their lives were like when he was nine or ten and he can’t envision John even thinking that maybe he ought to take a few minutes to show Dean the proper way to shave like most dads probably did with their sons.
Sam finds himself reliving the experience, he hasn’t thought of it in years, that day when Sam was barely fourteen and Dean cornered him in the motel bathroom, asking if he wanted to do something about that ‘peach fuzz’ on his lip and other random spots on his jawline and chin. Sam had thought of mentioning it, but chickened out every time. Of course, Dean knew him better, saw right through it. “I can show you, squirt, it’s about time anyway.”
So Sam just nods, smiles, and helps Dean up from the couch. “Come on, I’ll help you. You’ll feel so much better.”
And fucking hell, Dean is almost…smiling? Maybe? Surely looking at Sam like he was placing every ounce of trust he has into his younger brother. Well, that was really it, right? Sam needs to be worthy of that trust, needs to earn it, there’s no other choice now. He’s all Dean’s got.
Guiding Dean into the bathroom, Sam fills the sink with warm water, just warm, he’s so very careful to make it not too hot, not too cold, nothing that’s going to startle Dean.
Before getting started, though, a thought occurs to him. “Man, you had a lot to drink. You gotta piss?”
And fuck if Dean doesn’t get a little red, ducking his chin and shrugging his shoulders.
“Come on, man, what’s the big deal? I won’t look.” And he doesn’t. Sam turns his back, making sure Dean knows no one’s looking while he relieves himself and, strangely, puts the seat down. Hmmm. Maybe he learned that while he was with Lisa and Sam just never noticed. Not something that needs to be analyzed now, anyway.
He grabs a washcloth and soaks it, moving slowly.
“Okay, I’m just going to wet your face now before we get started.” Dean doesn’t move an inch as Sam slides the warm cloth over his cheeks, his chin, his jaw. That’s good, Sam thinks, he’s not trying to pull away, I didn’t scare him, all right…
Squirting a handful of shaving cream onto his palm, Sam continues his narration. He figures telling Dean everything he’s going to do ahead of time will lessen the possibility of freaking him out.
“Here we go, just putting on shaving cream”, Sam says, in a soft voice, “don’t want to give you razor burn.”
Shit, Dean’s eyes widened slightly at the word ‘razor’. Damn it. Sam remembers how long it was after he got out of the Cage before he was able to switch back to normal blades, insisting on using an electric shaver for months. Forget that both of them had always used a fucking straight razor, not willing to spend their limited supply of cash on some Gillette shit; Sam couldn’t even handle the feel of a crappy disposable three-blade thing from the drugstore back then.
He doesn’t have an electric shaver. Right this minute he’d sell his soul for one, not that his soul is worth anything these days. Either way, he couldn’t take Dean with him to Target to buy one, and he wasn’t about to leave him alone. “It’s all right, just this disposable Bic, it’s not gonna hurt you. I’m not gonna hurt you. Would never hurt you. Okay?”
He sees Dean close his eyes, open them again and then nod, letting out a deep exhale. So he just keeps going, covering Dean’s face with the cream, gliding it over his chin and neck. Wiping his hands on a towel, he grabs the razor and turns Dean away from the mirror so they’re face to face. Sam gets onto his knees, closes the lid of the seat and moves Dean down so that he’s sitting on the closed toilet lid, eye level for both of them.
“Close your eyes, it’s all right. Just be still and I’m gonna take care of this for you.” Dean immediately closes his eyes and Sam is shocked at the level of trust he’s been given so quickly. Maybe Dean is already much more aware than he seems of his surroundings.
This is it, no more time to stall, Sam’s got a job to do and he’s damn well going to ace it. Slowly, he slides the razor against Dean’s cheek, starting below his cheekbone and moving downward with the least amount of pressure needed to get the job done. After a couple of swipes, he rinses the blade in the sink and starts again. Dean’s left cheek is smooth now, no cuts or scrapes. Sam feels a little more comfortable as he starts in on the other side, repeating his movements on Dean’s right cheek.
Rinsing the blade in the sink again, Sam hesitates just a bit. This is the tough part, he knows. There’s no way to be sure how Dean’s going to react to having a blade held against his throat, even when, at least on some level, he knows it’s Sam and that Sam has no intention of hurting him.
And he’s right. The first touch of the razor against the underside of Dean’s jaw results in a flinch, Dean curling his fingers into fists, tensing up. Sam stops for a moment, hoping to calm his brother. “I know, I know, please, just trust me, do the best you can, give me a chance, Dean, I won’t hurt you.”
Dean seems to relax a bit at Sam’s whispered plea, so Sam starts again, shaving along Dean’s chin and neck, as gently as he possibly can. If he fucks up and nicks Dean’s skin, he’s afraid he’ll lose every bit of trust he might have gained. He’s determined to do this right. And yeah, his definition of ‘determined’ might have been described by others, including Dean, as stubborn or thickheaded or impossible, but he doesn’t care right now.
The only thing that matters is Sam getting this done, and doing it right. He moves slowly, patiently, against his nature.
Shaving is routine, it’s nothing, it’s like brushing your teeth. It takes Sam two minutes. But this is different. This is him, doing something his brother needs, and making sure there are no mistakes. So he takes his time, especially with this part. Rinses the razor in the sink again, glides the blade against the growth of hair on Dean’s throat and chin. It really is a strange thing to see. When Sam lets himself remember the first time he saw Dean after he’d been yanked out of Hell by Castiel, Dean had been completely clean-shaven. He can’t remember any time that Dean had embraced a scruffy, bearded look, even in his darkest days - mourning their dad, fighting Michael and Lucifer, losing Bobby - Dean never walked around with anything more than one day of stubble on his face.
He makes sure to get close while he’s shaving Dean’s face, all the way up to his cheekbones by his ears. While Sam may have embraced the sideburns-look, he knows Dean would never. Had Dean not been so traumatized, Sam may have left the sideburns, just to be funny.
But this isn’t funny.
“Okay Dean, this is the last bit, we’re almost done. Gotta shave your moustache now, you know what to do?”
After just a few seconds, Dean nods once, and pulls his upper lip down with his teeth, looking up at Sam with something that seems almost confident. Sam’s stomach does this wild butterfly-feeling flip-floppy thing; he imagines for one crazy second that maybe it’s like what parents feel like when they see their kid take his first unassisted step.
So very slowly, carefully, gently, Sam finishes up the almost-last part of this task, short strokes of the razor, one after the next until he’s covered the entire space from the left side of Dean’s lip to the end of the right.
Not quite done yet, though.
“Okay, be still, I’m just going to rinse off your face, make sure I didn’t miss anything.”
Thankful that the water in the sink hasn’t gone completely cold by now, Sam again slides the washcloth against his brother’s cheeks, his mouth, his chin, his throat.
And goddamn if he hasn’t done a really fucking great job. Doesn’t look like he left any spots of stubble behind, and Dean’s face is once again, as it has always been for as long as Sam can remember, completely smooth.
He sets the cloth down on the edge of the sink basin and carefully takes Dean’s hand, moving it so that Dean could feel his own skin.
“Better?” Sam asks, hopefully.
Dean is breathing a little steadier now, and looks up at Sam, nodding hesitantly. His eyes flicker up to the mirror, though.
So he wants to see it, that’s fine, that’s more than fine, it’s great, it means Dean might really understand that all of this is real.
Sam smiles and stands, giving his sore knees a break as he simultaneously gives Dean a hand up so that he can look at his own reflection. He hadn’t really been looking before, only feeling the hair on his face, knowing it was there and he didn’t want it.
There’s nothing more beautiful in the world, nothing better that has happened, ever, in the history of humanity, than Dean’s smile when he recognizes his own face in the mirror of Sam’s tiny bathroom in his shitty apartment.
Finally, fucking finally, Dean adds two more words to his post-Purgatory vocabulary. And it’s certainly not the ones that Sam is expecting. It’s just another whisper.
“Thank you.”
Sam wants to fall down onto the floor, he wants to completely lose his shit and cry all ugly and sobbing with tears and snot and no dignity whatsoever, but this isn’t the time for that.
This is the time for pretend-casual, the time for “No problem, dude”, the time for leading Dean back out to the living area and asking him if he wants anything else to eat or drink.
Every fucking word is a gift, every syllable, every sound, every second. Sam rejoices at Dean’s response of, “Still sleepy”.
“Okay, come on, let’s get you ready for some more rest.”
Sam eases Dean out of the sweats and tshirt he’d given him earlier, both so fucking gigantic that they almost swallowed him, until he has him down to just boxers. Reminds himself to get Dean’s bag from the trunk of the car so he could give him his own clothes back. Yeah, they’d still be too loose since Dean is so skinny, but not as bad as Sam’s clothes are.
Tucking the sheet and threadbare bedspread around his brother, Sam is ready to spend a few more hours sitting on the floor and watching Dean sleep when he hears more croaked-sounding words.
“Stay. Please.”
Certainly not too much to ask. Sam doesn’t hesitate for even a second before slipping under the covers next to Dean.
“I’m here. I’m here and so are you, and nobody’s going anywhere, you got that?”
Another tear is sliding down Dean’s now clean-shaven cheek. “Got. That.”
Sam stops himself from crying again, wipes the tear from Dean’s face and whispers, “Sleep as long as you need. I’ll be here when you wake up.”