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"Come on, dude, it's not rocket science," Dean had said. "You've got decent hand-eye coordination and most of a Stanford pre-law degree. You can do this."
To his credit, Sam fought him on it. He knows his limits. It's just he's not having a lot of success saying no to Dean these days. These days, his favorite thing to say to Dean is yes.
He can feel it going wrong from the start. Not horribly wrong, not at first. It's more like a gentle, easy, incredibly slippery slope from 'probably not terrible' to 'completely unsalvageable.' In their lives, it's the kind of slope that usually starts with the best of intentions and terminates in actual Hell.
"I told you this wasn't going to end well," Sam says, glaring at the awkward and uneven line of Dean's buzz cut. "I told you, several times."
"And I told you, I'm not a pretty little princess who needs every golden strand to fall perfectly into place every time I toss my head." Like some people goes unsaid, but just barely. "Just take a little more off the top."
"I take any more off the top and you'll be bald," Sam says, waving the scissors for emphasis. "Bald, for the record, is not my type."
Dean grabs at Sam's wrist when the scissors get a little too close to his face, then takes them away with a gentle roll of his eyes. "Shallow much?"
"You didn't need a haircut to start with. Why am I even doing this?"
Dean's eyes shift away to the left. "A man knows when it's time," he says vaguely. "Now, are you gonna finish this up any time soon? I've got an appointment with Top Chef I don't want to miss."
Sam sighs, and takes the scissors back. "I make no promises about the end result of this," he says, and turns Dean's head slightly to the left, using his chin as a handle. "Hold still."
Dean holds very, very still. Sam gives Dean's head a critical look, then snips vaguely around the top of it. He turns Dean's head again, with a gentle nudge at his jaw line, and Dean's eyes drift slowly shut.
Sam pauses. "Dean?"
"Hmmm?"
Sam's eyes narrow. He reaches out and traces a line, slow and barely there, along Dean's hairline. Dean's cheeks go pink, and his head tilts up into the touch.
"Oh," Sam says. He puts the scissors down. "Oh, my God, you total freak. What is wrong with you?"
Dean's face darkens to red, and he jerks away from Sam's hands. "What? What did I do? I'm just sitting here!"
But it's too late. Dean knows it, and from the shuttered and embarrassed look on his face, Dean knows Sam knows it, too.
"You are completely turned on right now, you jerk," Sam accuses. "You're perving out on a hair cut. Does this happen every time? No wonder you didn't want to go to professional, like a normal, sane person!"
"No, it's not every time. I mean, not when there's some old dude doing it," Dean huffs indignantly. "I have some standards, Sam."
Sam shoves at Dean's shoulder, laughing. "I can't believe you let me ruin your head just so you could get off. Why didn't you just say something?"
"Something like, 'hey, Sam, come stroke my face for five minutes while I jerk off, it'll be really hot'?" Dean says, not meeting Sam's eyes. "Because that wouldn't be an embarrassing thing to say to my brother at all."
Sam's heart does something ridiculous in his chest, and he takes a step closer without even planning to do it. Then it's another step, and he's straddling Dean's lap, up close and personal, watching Dean's eyes go wide and shocky.
"Uh," Dean says, swallowing hard. "I don't think this chair is really--"
"They built things to last back in the day," Sam says, unbuttoning Dean's jeans and sliding the zipper down. He kisses Dean on the mouth, a hard kiss with a bite in it somewhere, then does it again without the teeth. He gets his own pants open, takes both of Dean's hands in his, and puts them where they can do the most good.
"Sam." Dean groans, and Sam reaches out to cradle the back of Dean's head in one hand. He traces his fingers over Dean's mouth, over the sharp curve of Dean's cheekbone. Dean's hand closes over Sam's dick and Sam pushes into it with a hiss.
"This is why you ask for what you want," Sam tells Dean. Dean nods, frantic and convinced. Sam runs his fingers over Dean's eyebrows, then up into what's left of Dean's hair. "You might get it."
"Uh huh," Dean says, and Sam can tell he has no idea what he's agreeing to. "Whatever. Jesus, Sam, do that again --"
Sam pushes into Dean's hand again, which wasn't what Dean meant, but Christ, it feels good. He digs his fingers into Dean's scalp and tilts Dean's head up, bites at the curve of his jaw. Dean sucks in a sharp breath and arches, and suddenly everything between them is a lot hotter, a lot wetter, a lot tighter. Sam bucks into the mess of it, losing the grasp of Dean's fingers as they slacken but finding the hard plane of Dean's stomach instead. It's just as good, maybe better, and he comes with a choked gasp that dissolves into startled laughter.
"Not all your ideas suck," Sam says eventually, grinning. He pushes back to let some air between them. "I mean, sorry about your hair, but wow."
Dean's got both hands held out and away from his body, like a surgeon getting ready to operate. "You're straightening that out," he says. "As soon as we clean up."
Sam shakes his head, smiling down at Dean with a frankly unfathomable degree of fondness. "Yeah, I guess I have to," he says. "I'm certainly never letting you near a barber shop again..."