Routine.
Title: Routine
Fandom/original: Supernatural
Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester
Rating: G
Word prompt: Word #59
Word count: 355
The kid’s bouncing on his feet - rocking forward onto splayed toes and back again to rest on calloused heels. His tousled, unkempt hair is plastered to his forehead by sticky heat and stickier sweat. Tyler MS Tigers sprawled across a blue-and-gold jersey, matching gym shorts scrunched around a skinny waist. Scuffed shinguards dangle from one finger, a pair of equally scuffed kleats dangling from the other. Bronze skin and wide eyes and hair stained a lighter shade of brown by the sun.
“Alright, alright.” He shrugs as the clattering fan’s lukewarm breeze passes over his shoulders, ruffling military-cut hair. “Go on.”
The kid beams like he always does, that ridiculous grin that's impossible to bear, and then he's darting around the corner even though he’s still breathing hard from the sprint inside.
“But put on-“ Already gone. The bell over the door clanks. “Shoes.”
He scowls through the smudged window, watches the spray of sparks descend from Jim’s welding torch towards the back of the garage. The kid skips well around the gold shower, bare feet slapping concrete, and he’s darting under the lifted frame of a beaten up Lincoln Towncar and around the busted bumper of a Ford Taurus and skidding to a halt where dirty blonde head is sticking out from under a busted pickup, smile still broad even as he’s at a soldier’s attention.
The kid under the engine rolls out, grease smeared across fading freckles and tanned arms, and props up on one elbow. He makes a look of incredulity even as a smile plays across his lips. The younger’s shoulders sink into immediate relaxation, talking so rapidly that even his brother looks a little overwhelmed. He throws an oily rag into the kid’s hands, demands something, and the kid makes a face before reluctantly plopping onto the concrete and shoving bare feet back into kleats.
He rubs a dirty towel across the window, but none of the caked-on grime comes away with it. The rattling fan makes another pass, groans, and begins that godawful screeching noise. He punches it off and swipes the towel across his dripping forehead instead.
“Got a car needs fixing,” a gravelly voice announces from the other side of the counter.
The mechanic turns, shrugs. “S’what we do.” Such is routine.
--Finis--
A/N: There's no real purpose to this. Besides Winchesters being awesome.
Fandom/original: Supernatural
Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester
Rating: G
Word prompt: Word #59
Word count: 355
The kid’s bouncing on his feet - rocking forward onto splayed toes and back again to rest on calloused heels. His tousled, unkempt hair is plastered to his forehead by sticky heat and stickier sweat. Tyler MS Tigers sprawled across a blue-and-gold jersey, matching gym shorts scrunched around a skinny waist. Scuffed shinguards dangle from one finger, a pair of equally scuffed kleats dangling from the other. Bronze skin and wide eyes and hair stained a lighter shade of brown by the sun.
“Alright, alright.” He shrugs as the clattering fan’s lukewarm breeze passes over his shoulders, ruffling military-cut hair. “Go on.”
The kid beams like he always does, that ridiculous grin that's impossible to bear, and then he's darting around the corner even though he’s still breathing hard from the sprint inside.
“But put on-“ Already gone. The bell over the door clanks. “Shoes.”
He scowls through the smudged window, watches the spray of sparks descend from Jim’s welding torch towards the back of the garage. The kid skips well around the gold shower, bare feet slapping concrete, and he’s darting under the lifted frame of a beaten up Lincoln Towncar and around the busted bumper of a Ford Taurus and skidding to a halt where dirty blonde head is sticking out from under a busted pickup, smile still broad even as he’s at a soldier’s attention.
The kid under the engine rolls out, grease smeared across fading freckles and tanned arms, and props up on one elbow. He makes a look of incredulity even as a smile plays across his lips. The younger’s shoulders sink into immediate relaxation, talking so rapidly that even his brother looks a little overwhelmed. He throws an oily rag into the kid’s hands, demands something, and the kid makes a face before reluctantly plopping onto the concrete and shoving bare feet back into kleats.
He rubs a dirty towel across the window, but none of the caked-on grime comes away with it. The rattling fan makes another pass, groans, and begins that godawful screeching noise. He punches it off and swipes the towel across his dripping forehead instead.
“Got a car needs fixing,” a gravelly voice announces from the other side of the counter.
The mechanic turns, shrugs. “S’what we do.” Such is routine.
--Finis--
A/N: There's no real purpose to this. Besides Winchesters being awesome.