Author notes: Based on a conversation with tanaquisga, who was also nice enough to nitpick this for me again.
"Your turn." Sam waved Dean into the seat in front of the mirror.
Eying the thin pencil in Sam's hand suspiciously, Dean sat down. "Dude, if you poke me in the eye with that..." His eyes started to water at the mere thought, and he blinked rapidly.
Sam let out an exaggerated sigh and rolled his shoulders. "Relax, Dean. I know what I'm doing."
"Yeah. That's what scares me." Dean glanced up at his brother and smirked. "I don't know what freaks me out more: that you look like a chick or," he gestured at the collection of tubes and jars scattered across the desk, "how good you are with this stuff. Makes me wonder, you know? What'd you really do at Stanford?"
Sam grabbed Dean's chin and tilted his head back. "Shut up, Dean. And don't move." Below his breath, he added, "And I don't look like a girl."
Sam bent forward. "Keep your eyes open," he ordered, as Dean's eyelids involuntarily fluttered closed.
"Why are we doing this again?" Dean mumbled, trying to keep his head still. He made his eyes as round as he could and gazed up at the ceiling, trying not to blink while Sam set to work.
"You know why," Sam said absently. He was using the infuriatingly patient tone that always put Dean's back up. But since Sam was the one holding a pointy object not an inch from Dean's eyeball, Dean decided to keep his thoughts to himself for once.
"If we want to catch this black-arts dealer in the act," Sam continued, "we've got to blend in."
"But did it have to be... this?" Dean whined. "A goddamned Goth party?"
Sam pulled away a little and studied his handiwork. "Could've been worse," he said cheerily. "Could've been a fetish fest."
Sam jabbed the pencil at Dean's right eye some more, before drawing back far enough to scrutinize his brother's face. He gave a satisfied nod. "All done."
Dean let out a sigh of relief and glanced at his reflection in the mirror. He barely recognized himself. A pale face looked back, the eyes lined thickly with black kohl. A fake piercing clung to one nostril while another, glinting in the lamplight, disfigured his left eyebrow. Dean's short hair stood up in stiff, black spikes. God, he hoped Sam hadn't been lying when he'd promised that would wash out.
He grimaced. "I look like a freak."
Sam chortled. "You are a freak," he said. He handed Dean a long, leather coat. "Put this on."
Dean shrugged into it. He spun on his heel and whistled softly, admiring the way the tails flared out behind him. "The coats are cool, though. You sure there's no way we get to keep them?"
Sam threw him the keys to the Impala. "Dean, let's just go."
Disclaimer: This story is based on the Warner Bros. Television/Wonderland Sound and Vision/Eric Kripke/Robert Singer series Supernatural. It was written for entertainment only; the author does not profit from it nor was any infringement of copyright intended. Please do not redistribute elsewhere without the author's consent.