With a groan of frustration he fumbles with slipping the key into the lock of the door and finally gets it open. He lets out a relieved little huff and then slips inside. The room is dark, but the doors and windows are salted and his younger brother is snoring softly in the bed closest to the bathroom.

Dean Winchester shakes his head to clear it a little and thinks that maybe that was a bad idea. He manages to get the door shut and locked behind him. He tosses the room key and his car keys on the rickety table in the corner of the room by the air conditioner unit.

He gets tangled up in his leather jacket as he tries and finally manages to wiggle out of it. He lets it fall to the floor and then heads to the bathroom because a piss is a good idea at the moment. He makes it to the bathroom, his aim is never off, and then he's washing his hand, and swishing water around in his mouth to clear away the invisible cotton filling it. He lets out a hellish belch and then stumbles out of the bathroom. He pulls his shirt off and tosses it. He snickers as it lands on the lamp, and then he wiggles out of his jeans.

He turns to check on his little brother Sam, lying in the bed closest to the bathroom. He draws up to the bed, and looks down. The covers are pulled halfway up Sam's chest, and he's lying half on his side half on his back, and his hair is flopping into his face. Dean closes his eyes and groans.

Hair. Dammit. His one weakness after Sammy. The whole reason why tonight's little one night stand had ended when the bitch from the bar had said she'd rather be fucked than have some pansy ass queer play in her hair. He'd promptly pulled on his jacket and ended up back at the bar downing shot after shot until the bartender finally cut him off.

Now here he is facing his greatest weakness, and why does Sam have to have such perfect God damned hair? There is nothing fair about this world. Absolutely NOTHING!

He bends down, leans over Sam, his nose pressed against Sam's hair, the silky strands tickling a little as he inhales the flowery scent of Sam's shampoo. Lavender and lilacs, a nice touch, and women accused him of being the fruity one for wanting to mess with their hair.

He rolls his eyes at the thought, as he nuzzles his nose upward, the hair gliding along his nose, cheek, lips, and his eyes flutter shut, and his fingers sift through his little brother's hair. Oh it's so perfect, and it's not fair, because he wants to play in Sam's hair forever, but that's not possible.

Sam is his brother; it's not a sexual thing. It's not like that at all, Dean's all in it for the chicks, but damn Sam and his perfect hair that calls to Dean's wayward fingers like a siren's song. The silky texture slipping and gliding through Dean's calloused fingers sends a shiver of pleasure up his spine, and he loves the occasional times he gets to smack Sam in the head over something stupid. At least Sam doesn't catch on to Dean's hand lingering longer than necessary to make his point sometimes.

Sam snorts beneath him and Dean jerks back, runs his fingers through the short spikes of his own hair, shakes himself, realizes that the move is still a bad idea, stumbles toward his bed, and falls forward into it, landing with a grunt on the mattress and tangling himself up in the covers, fiercely hugging the pillow against his face and he's snoring within seconds.

Sam lets out a short breath and lifts himself up. There is a pillow crease against his right cheek, but he's wide-awake and staring at his snoring older brother. He'd woken up at the sound of the key rattling in the door, and he'd been pretending to be asleep while Dean stumbled around the room doing his business.

Of course Sam never expected Dean's interest in him. In fact it's got him wide-awake and gaping at his brother sleeping it off in the other bed.

Holy hell! Dean's got a thing for him, smelling his hair, rubbing his face in it, those blunt calloused fingers slipping through his hair and caressing his scalp. Christ, and it had felt good too, but no. Dean is his big brother, and it's wrong, and since when has Dean had a thing for him? Were there looks that he's just missed? How could he miss something like this?

-----------

Consciousness creeps up along Dean like a horny caterwauling cat in heat, and there's even an accompanying screech in his head. He rolls over, his hand clutching at his forehead as he groans and swears off liquor for at least that next twenty-four hours.

A jolt shivers up his spine and he knows that he's being watched. He reaches for the knife on the bedside table, and slowly rises up, his shoulders rolling, as he prepares to make a move.

He quickly rolls over, pulling the knife from the sheath and holds it out defensively. He gives the room a quick once over, and then he cocks his head and narrows his eyes on Sam, who's sitting on his bed with his knees drawn up to his chin, his arms wrapped around his legs, and Sam's just staring at him.

"Okay," Dean says as he puts the knife down and gets up from the bed.

He crosses over to Sam, who's still staring at him like he's in some kind of shock. Dean reaches out, his fingers itching to run through Sam's hair, but dammit, Dean has control. He really does, so instead he grips Sam's shoulder. Sam jumps beneath his touch and jerks his head up, his eyes wide as his gaze locks with Dean.

"The hell?" Dean snaps, as he pulls his hand back and waits on some kind of an explanation.

Sam shakes himself and blinks. "No-nothing. Just a weird dream is all. Yeah. A dream, that's it."

Dean lifts a brow and gives Sam a worried look. "Yeah. Okay. You know if you have a nightmare you can wake me up. Hell, usually you do. So cut the shit. What's with you?"

Sam shakes his head with conviction and Dean sighs, before he grabs his shirt from the lamp, sniffs it, makes a face at the strong scent of alcohol on the material, which makes his stomach churn before he tosses it behind him. He heads over to his duffel and pulls a fresh shirt from the bag, along with fresh boxers and a pair of blue jeans.

He looks back over his shoulder at Sam as he heads to the bathroom and says, "Hey, I'm gonna get a shower. Then we can head out to breakfast, kay? And this whole freak out you got going. You better have your shit together before I get out of the shower or I'm wrestlin' it out of your ass."

Sam's eyes widened even more at that, and Dean lifts a brow again. Sam swallows and actually squeaks, pulls his pillow in his lap and Dean just shakes his head and steps into the bathroom, shuts the door behind him, and within seconds he is engulfed in steam and hot water is pounding into his back and dripping in beads down his body. Thank God they found a motel with decent water pressure and lots of hot water. A true wonder.

---------

At the sound of the bathroom door shutting behind Dean, Sam shakes his head and snaps out of it. He gets out of the bed, pulls fresh clothes from his own duffel, quickly dresses in a couple of extra layers than what he normally wears and then he begins to pace the room. He runs a hand through his hair and then pauses as he remembers Dean's nose in his hair from the night before.

A frustrated noise rises from his throat and he has no idea how to confront Dean about this, because one wrong move and Dean will probably kick his ass, or worse… Maybe feel him up!

It's the sound of the bathroom door opening that has Sam stopping short mid pace. He spins around and Dean emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, his hair spiky and dark with moisture from the shower and the steam.

Sam takes a deep breath and braces himself, and he lets out that breath in a rush and the words just tumble out of his mouth before his brain is really given a chance to catch up.

"Um. Look, Dean, it's perfectly normal, given the way we grew up for us to...you know, have FEELINGS..." At the word "feelings" and Dean's look of complete confusion Sam's mouth runs out of gas.

"What the hell is with you, Sam? You hit your head or something? Feelings? Dude, are you like…hitting on me or somethin'? Got somethin' to confess, Sammy? Christ man! We're brothers! What are you thinking?" Dean snaps.

Sam almost lets out a sigh of relief until indignation comes to the forefront. "Me? What am I thinking, Dean?! How about you! Me hitting on you! Yeah, like that's gonna happen! I don't even like… Okay, let's not go there! You were the one molesting me last night! Dude your nose was in my hair and you were just…petting me! You don't pet your brother, man. You just…DON'T."

"I wasn't petting you! Christ! I'm not some perv…" Dean sighs at the pointed bitch face he gets from Sam and then concedes, "Okay, so I am a perv, but I'm into chicks. Seriously. My ass is off limits, Sam, except that one time with that chick down in New Orleans, but it was Mardi Gras, and it was moonshine, dude, authentic moonshine!"

Sam's face twists in horror and he shudders, holds his hands up and pleads, "Dean! I so don't want to hear THAT!"

"Fine, but it's a great damn story. I mean who knew you could do THAT with a strap on!" Dean's grinning at the memory and Sam's praying for this traumatic event to come with amnesia, and soon.

"How about we get some coffee and breakfast and we'll discuss your little fetishes, minus the strap on, and your budding sexuality after," Sam suggests.

"There is no budding sexuality. Dude, I'm straight," Dean says, and then he reaches out, stopping short of pushing Sam's hair back from his face as he says, "And you could so use a hair cut. Not much, because that would be a shame not to have enough to run your fingers through. I'm thinking a trim, maybe half an inch, some layering at the front, so it flies away a little from your face, but still frames it. I could totally pull that off."

Sam's brows lift and he stares in shock at his brother. "Dude, what the hell? Since when do you know anything about hair?"

Dean actually flushes at this. "This chick, Elsie May in Albuquerque liked it when I messed around with her hair after we did the wild thang, and I got a thing for it. Hell man, I don't just bang chicks all across the nation, I leave them with a great hair do in the morning, too."

Sam's mouth falls open at this confession. "I'm thinking coffee isn't strong enough to deal with this," Sam mutters.

"It's too early to drink, Haley Joel."

Sam rolls his eyes at the nick name and shakes his head, and damn if his hair doesn't just fly into his face again, and Dean just can't stand it.

He stomps his foot down and snaps, "That's it! Park your ass in that chair! I'm gonna do something with that mop on your head and you're gonna shut up about it. And if you laugh or bitch even once, I'm nipping your ear with the scissors! Got it?!"

Sam swallows as he sits down in the chair that Dean's yanked from the table, and he watches as Dean heads over to his bag and rummages through it. He returns with what looks like his shaving kit. Sam's eyes widen as he watches Dean pull out a razor trimmer, professional salon scissors, a comb and a small squirt bottle filled with water.

"I don't have the cape thing, so you'll just have to deal," Dean says, and then he's laying a towel across Sam's shoulders, and squirting Sam's head with the bottle.

It isn't long before Dean's got his fingers in Sam's slick hair and he's trimming it up with the scissors. He comes around to face Sam, and checks to make sure the hair is evenly cut, and Sam watches him nervously. Once Dean's sure it's even he runs the razor trimmer along the ends of Sam's hair for that layered look he'd mentioned earlier.

Sam's Adam's apple bobs in nervousness, and finally Dean pulls back, puts the razor and comb down, and then he yanks the towel back, attacks his hair with a fresh towel, runs his hands through Sam's hair, and tussles it a little.

Sam looks up at the mirror on the wall and his eyes widen in shock, because it's the best haircut he's had in a while. His hair fans out on the sides, just like Dean said it would, and it's already drying out. Dean grabs his shoulder and pulls him back down into the chair. A minute later he's running his fingers through Sam's hair, and whatever he's putting on it, it's making Sam's hair softer and shinier.

Dean pulls back from his handy work and smirks in the mirror at Sam. "It's a leave in conditioner. Now, College Boy, anything to say?"

Sam looks up at his brother's reflection in amazement and says, "Dude, sure you're not gay?"

Dean smacks him in the back of the head, grumbles about bitch ass little brothers, and needing coffee before he kills someone, namely ungrateful bitch ass little brothers.

Sam takes one more look in the mirror; admiring the haircut before he follows Dean out the door for some much needed coffee and breakfast.

Thank God Dean's straight. It's just one less thing to worry about. Still Sam watches Dean out of the corner of his eye just in case. Because he doesn't want to miss any signs of funny business. After all what kind of macho straight guy actually knows about good hair? He almost mutters "Christo," once, but he really doesn't want to risk an ass kicking so early on in the day.

At least he has some good ammo to use against his brother later on. Demon hunter and hairdresser extraordinaire, yup, just Dean Winchester in a nutshell, folks. Now if only he could bleach his brain of the thoughts circling around strap ons, moonshine, Mardi Gras, and his older brother…

End.