Rating: K+ verging on T for innuendo
Word Count: 100
Disclaimer: I don't own them
SWEET, SWEET MUSIC
Sam sat spellbound by the string concerto on TV. As he watched in rapt fascination, Dean's bored sighs went unheeded.
"It'd be cool to date a musician Dean, don't you think?" He eventually announced.
"You know, someone creative and spiritual, a real artiste."
Dean shrugged. "I guess it depends on the type of musician."
"Well, think about it. Pianists have really nimble fingers, drummers have great rhythm, and flautists can do amazing things with their lips …"
Sam scowled. "You have to bring everything down to gutter level, don't you."
"Aw, never mind Sammy. If you can't decide, maybe we could find you a one-man-band."
THE HANDS OF A MASTER
I'm mesmerised, watching Dean cleaning his Colt 1911.
It's like watching a virtuoso coaxing beautiful music from his favourite instrument as Dean's long, skilful fingers go about their work.
With supreme attention he threads a pipecleaner into the gun's barrel before he carefully dismantles her and works oil into all her moving parts, not missing a single inch of her nickel-plated surface. He finishes by polishing her ivory handle with a soft cloth, one I know he keeps especially for the purpose.
You ask, am I jealous? No, I'm not.
Y'see, I'm the Winchesters' Taurus. And it's my turn next …