Supernatural: His World Is Built Around Punctuality
Title: His World Is Built Around Punctuality
Author: morelenmir
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Sam, Castiel; hinting at future Sam/Castiel
Wordcount: 892
Summary: Sam is waiting for Mr. Novak, the newest member of Winchester & Winchester, who is late on his first day.
Author notes: Sassy's been in my head all gorram morning and thus lunch break turned into writing. Because of hils. Yes, I'm blaming you, you horrible person. For Sassy. \o/
Sam Winchester looks up from his Rolex when the front office’s door opens. The man that barrels through the entrance is breathless and ruddy, black hair wild and damp, the shoulders of his tan trenchcoat speckled with spring rain. The remainder of a bagel is being crammed into a mouth framed by chapped lips and his blue eyes are wide, darting around the room until they land on Sam. He breathes out a sigh of relief and then claps a hand to his mouth, horrified. The satchel in his grasp nearly clips his chin from the abrupt movement and he fails to stop some bagel crumbs from flying past his lips.
The smile dancing around the corners of Sam’s mouth is far from condescending. He rises smoothly from his perch on the receptionist’s desk, nodding briefly at her to indicate the closure of their conversation, and strides around the divider. “Good morning, Mr. Novak,” he says, holding out his hand. Novak struggles briefly with his satchel before freeing his hand to grasp Sam’s.
“Good morning, Mr. Winchester,” he replies, quickly regaining his breath. “I’m so sorry, I’m late…”
Sam cuts him off with a casual wave. “I heard about the I-20 accident and closure. You actually made it here before I expected you to.” He claps the smaller man on the shoulder companionably and leads him out of the office and down the hall. Their shoes produce an echo on the polished hardwood floor, muted by the tapestries and paintings spaced along the hall. He glances over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow. “You didn’t break any traffic laws, right?”
Novak blinks. “Certainly not.” His tone is as offended as his expression and Sam chuckles, stopping to face him.
“I didn’t--” He glances over Novak’s suit, which isn’t as rumpled as the trenchcoat would suggest, and a frown draws his eyebrows together. “Marcie.” His voice is projected just enough to carry out of the hall.
The receptionist appears and Sam motions Novak out of his coat, taking the satchel so he can remove the coat. Marcie takes it-Sam notices the back is also rather wet, and makes a note to chide Novak into using an umbrella-and leaves them in the empty corridor. Sam sets the satchel on the floor, tugs a small comb out of his waistcoat’s inside pocket, and offers it to Novak.
He looks at the comb and then glances up to Sam’s face. Sam shrugs. “Hair like mine, it’s handy. And you look like a typhoon worked you over.” Novak blushes-really? He blushes? Sam bites the inside of his lower lip to halt the little smile threatening to appear-and accepts the comb, hastily working it over his wet hair. Hands thus occupied, Sam swoops between Novak’s lifted arms to quickly undo Novak’s tie.
It’s amusing that he has to actually bend over some to do so, and Sam looks up through loose brown strands of hair directly into large blue eyes. His lips curve up and he says, after a beat, “Your tie was backwards.”
Novak’s mouth works for a moment. “Ah.” His hands, briefly stilled, resume the taming of the hair.
Sam’s fingers slide over the tie, soft silk cool to the touch, and firmly work it around. Knot, flip, insert, pull, knot again. He finesses the tie into a proper position and smoothes out an errant wrinkle before letting it fall against Novak’s white shirt. “Nice tie.” It matches your eyes.
“Thank you for the comb.”
Sam takes the comb and instantly replaces it with a small silver tin, dwarfed by his large palm. “What kind of bagel was that?”
“Uh.” He flounders for a second at the non sequitur. “Cinnamon.”
“Breath mint. Take one.” Novak obeys and Sam runs a critical eye over his hair. It doesn’t resemble an alien lifeform camped out on an unsuspecting soul’s head anymore. Quite the improvement.
Novak hands the tin back and glances away to the boardroom door down the hall. A trace of panic threads into his gaze and Sam finds his hand on Novak’s shoulder again, reassuring and firm.
“They’ll like you.”
“I’m late.” He hasn’t looked away from the smoked glass concealing the inside of the room at the end of the hall. “Hell of a first impression.”
“Hey,” Sam says, gently shaking him. Novak stirs and looks up. “This is your second impression. Your first one got you hired. It doesn’t matter what happens in there, okay? You’re solidly in.”
“Really, Mr. Winchester?” The anticipation, dread, hope, and sheer nerves in Novak’s surprisingly frank gaze hold Sam tongue-tied for a second. He clears his throat and nods.
“Definitely. Just don’t insult anyone’s mother.” He winks down at him cheerily and starts walking down the hall, Novak catching up the satchel and staying a half-step behind. God, he was looking forward to working with this man. Sam drops his hand, reluctantly, from Novak’s shoulder to place it on the door’s handle, and regards him for a silent moment.
“And please, call me Sam.” No need to be formal. We’re coworkers.
Novak holds his look steadily and nods once, thoughtfully, an expression similar to peace settling behind his eyes and softening the tense lines of his torso. “Cas.”
A grin breaks across Sam’s face. “All right, Cas, welcome to Winchester & Winchester.”
And he opens the door.
Author: morelenmir
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Sam, Castiel; hinting at future Sam/Castiel
Wordcount: 892
Summary: Sam is waiting for Mr. Novak, the newest member of Winchester & Winchester, who is late on his first day.
Author notes: Sassy's been in my head all gorram morning and thus lunch break turned into writing. Because of hils. Yes, I'm blaming you, you horrible person. For Sassy. \o/
Sam Winchester looks up from his Rolex when the front office’s door opens. The man that barrels through the entrance is breathless and ruddy, black hair wild and damp, the shoulders of his tan trenchcoat speckled with spring rain. The remainder of a bagel is being crammed into a mouth framed by chapped lips and his blue eyes are wide, darting around the room until they land on Sam. He breathes out a sigh of relief and then claps a hand to his mouth, horrified. The satchel in his grasp nearly clips his chin from the abrupt movement and he fails to stop some bagel crumbs from flying past his lips.
The smile dancing around the corners of Sam’s mouth is far from condescending. He rises smoothly from his perch on the receptionist’s desk, nodding briefly at her to indicate the closure of their conversation, and strides around the divider. “Good morning, Mr. Novak,” he says, holding out his hand. Novak struggles briefly with his satchel before freeing his hand to grasp Sam’s.
“Good morning, Mr. Winchester,” he replies, quickly regaining his breath. “I’m so sorry, I’m late…”
Sam cuts him off with a casual wave. “I heard about the I-20 accident and closure. You actually made it here before I expected you to.” He claps the smaller man on the shoulder companionably and leads him out of the office and down the hall. Their shoes produce an echo on the polished hardwood floor, muted by the tapestries and paintings spaced along the hall. He glances over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow. “You didn’t break any traffic laws, right?”
Novak blinks. “Certainly not.” His tone is as offended as his expression and Sam chuckles, stopping to face him.
“I didn’t--” He glances over Novak’s suit, which isn’t as rumpled as the trenchcoat would suggest, and a frown draws his eyebrows together. “Marcie.” His voice is projected just enough to carry out of the hall.
The receptionist appears and Sam motions Novak out of his coat, taking the satchel so he can remove the coat. Marcie takes it-Sam notices the back is also rather wet, and makes a note to chide Novak into using an umbrella-and leaves them in the empty corridor. Sam sets the satchel on the floor, tugs a small comb out of his waistcoat’s inside pocket, and offers it to Novak.
He looks at the comb and then glances up to Sam’s face. Sam shrugs. “Hair like mine, it’s handy. And you look like a typhoon worked you over.” Novak blushes-really? He blushes? Sam bites the inside of his lower lip to halt the little smile threatening to appear-and accepts the comb, hastily working it over his wet hair. Hands thus occupied, Sam swoops between Novak’s lifted arms to quickly undo Novak’s tie.
It’s amusing that he has to actually bend over some to do so, and Sam looks up through loose brown strands of hair directly into large blue eyes. His lips curve up and he says, after a beat, “Your tie was backwards.”
Novak’s mouth works for a moment. “Ah.” His hands, briefly stilled, resume the taming of the hair.
Sam’s fingers slide over the tie, soft silk cool to the touch, and firmly work it around. Knot, flip, insert, pull, knot again. He finesses the tie into a proper position and smoothes out an errant wrinkle before letting it fall against Novak’s white shirt. “Nice tie.” It matches your eyes.
“Thank you for the comb.”
Sam takes the comb and instantly replaces it with a small silver tin, dwarfed by his large palm. “What kind of bagel was that?”
“Uh.” He flounders for a second at the non sequitur. “Cinnamon.”
“Breath mint. Take one.” Novak obeys and Sam runs a critical eye over his hair. It doesn’t resemble an alien lifeform camped out on an unsuspecting soul’s head anymore. Quite the improvement.
Novak hands the tin back and glances away to the boardroom door down the hall. A trace of panic threads into his gaze and Sam finds his hand on Novak’s shoulder again, reassuring and firm.
“They’ll like you.”
“I’m late.” He hasn’t looked away from the smoked glass concealing the inside of the room at the end of the hall. “Hell of a first impression.”
“Hey,” Sam says, gently shaking him. Novak stirs and looks up. “This is your second impression. Your first one got you hired. It doesn’t matter what happens in there, okay? You’re solidly in.”
“Really, Mr. Winchester?” The anticipation, dread, hope, and sheer nerves in Novak’s surprisingly frank gaze hold Sam tongue-tied for a second. He clears his throat and nods.
“Definitely. Just don’t insult anyone’s mother.” He winks down at him cheerily and starts walking down the hall, Novak catching up the satchel and staying a half-step behind. God, he was looking forward to working with this man. Sam drops his hand, reluctantly, from Novak’s shoulder to place it on the door’s handle, and regards him for a silent moment.
“And please, call me Sam.” No need to be formal. We’re coworkers.
Novak holds his look steadily and nods once, thoughtfully, an expression similar to peace settling behind his eyes and softening the tense lines of his torso. “Cas.”
A grin breaks across Sam’s face. “All right, Cas, welcome to Winchester & Winchester.”
And he opens the door.