SPN drabble: "Play It Again" (Dean, Sam. G.)
Happy Birthday missmollyetc!!! I hope you had a great day. :-)
Title: Play It Again
Characters: Dean, Sam
Rating: G
Summary: The band plays regular, every Frid'y, uh huh, and I come see 'em every week, too. Glad you could make it tonight, Frances, we'll have to do it again!
Word Count: 200
Spoilers: None.
Notes/Warnings: Written for missmollyetc, for her birthday. :-) She requested "Dean and Sam and music." Unbetaed.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. This is only for fun.
Live music plays through the bar, worlds away from the canned-sounding jukeboxes Sam's used to hearing. Listening in on the conversation at the next table reveals that the band plays Regular, every Frid'y, uh huh, and I come see 'em every week, too. Glad you could make it tonight, Frances, we'll have to do it again!
They spread out the notes from their witness interviews, overlapping on the small table. Dean chews on a deep-fried pickle and Sam threatens bodily harm if he drips on the papers. Dean gives him a grin and takes a big bite, then swipes his greasy fingers along Sam's jeans. Sam glares and kicks him under the table.
They don't speak for awhile, focusing on their notes and beer, until Sam finally finds something. "Huh," he says. "So the widow and the brother-in-law were both there, right? But--" He cuts himself off when he discovers Dean's not listening. His head is bobbing, fingers tapping, foot bouncing along the ground, and his gaze is directed out towards the dance floor. Sam grins wide, leaning in close so Dean will hear.
"You wanna dance?" he asks.
Dean's expression makes up for the grease spot on Sam's jeans.
Title: Play It Again
Characters: Dean, Sam
Rating: G
Summary: The band plays regular, every Frid'y, uh huh, and I come see 'em every week, too. Glad you could make it tonight, Frances, we'll have to do it again!
Word Count: 200
Spoilers: None.
Notes/Warnings: Written for missmollyetc, for her birthday. :-) She requested "Dean and Sam and music." Unbetaed.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. This is only for fun.
Live music plays through the bar, worlds away from the canned-sounding jukeboxes Sam's used to hearing. Listening in on the conversation at the next table reveals that the band plays Regular, every Frid'y, uh huh, and I come see 'em every week, too. Glad you could make it tonight, Frances, we'll have to do it again!
They spread out the notes from their witness interviews, overlapping on the small table. Dean chews on a deep-fried pickle and Sam threatens bodily harm if he drips on the papers. Dean gives him a grin and takes a big bite, then swipes his greasy fingers along Sam's jeans. Sam glares and kicks him under the table.
They don't speak for awhile, focusing on their notes and beer, until Sam finally finds something. "Huh," he says. "So the widow and the brother-in-law were both there, right? But--" He cuts himself off when he discovers Dean's not listening. His head is bobbing, fingers tapping, foot bouncing along the ground, and his gaze is directed out towards the dance floor. Sam grins wide, leaning in close so Dean will hear.
"You wanna dance?" he asks.
Dean's expression makes up for the grease spot on Sam's jeans.