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Okay. What? This is the–fourth time, at least, by Dean’s count, and just–

“What the hell,” he mutters, under his breath, and Sam barely glances up from his book.

“What,” he says, absently, turning back to the history of–whatever, Goats Through the Ages, Dean doesn’t even care at this point. He’s too distracted by yet another chick pausing by their table in the library, pretending to look at something in the stacks while clearly just sizing up Sam, and not even giving Dean a second glance. He sits back from the table and just stares at the girl–cute, even if she’s way too young for either of them at this point, but. Come on.

“Hey, I think I got something,” Sam says, and the girl jerks her eyes away, and catches Dean staring, and gives him the what, creepo? face and turns away all offended, and–really? Really? “Dude, hello? Research, for the case?”

When Dean focuses back on Sam, he finds himself the recipient of a very similar version of the creepo face. “Come on, man, you could literally be her dad,” Sam says, and holy crap that is not the point.

“What is going on?” Dean says, and Sam shakes his head, brow furrowed like what, but he also reaches up to scratch the scruff and–oh, no. Really? “Oh my god,” Dean says, a little too loud, and Sam shushes him, but this is just ridiculous. “You’re lumberjack chic. I can’t believe this.”

Sam stares at him, but–there’s another little group of coeds down in the mythology and folklore section, and they’re actually whispering and pointing, a little giggle floating down through the shelves, and they’re all focused right on Sam. Sam, who caught a nasty slash on the jaw from a tree branch during a hunt two weeks ago–and yeah, Dean made fun of him for losing a fight with a tree, especially since Dean had almost broken a rib from a tussle with the actual ghost, but whatever, he’d put in a few stitches for Sammy too, and made sure it didn’t get infected. Sam hadn’t been able to shave, and there was a minute there where his beard was patchy and hilarious, but now–it’s pretty even, and he’s been trimming it so it looks… vaguely good, if Dean’s going to be honest. But this–another girl passes by, while Dean’s still having this weird hot revelation, and what the hell, are they having a voyeur library convention?

Sam sits there with his beard and his hair tucked behind his ears in his red plaid, tan and huge and ridiculous, and says, “Dude, what the hell are you talking about,” and Dean shoves up from the table and glares at this latest girl, who blinks at him all shocked and scuttles off into the stacks.

“We’re leaving,” Dean says, while Sam raises his eyebrows. “And then we’re gonna take those stitches out, and you’re going to shave.”

“Oh,” Sam says, and scratches at his jaw again. “Okay, good call. Not really FBI regs, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, slamming the book closed. “That’s why.”