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SAM and DEAN WINCHESTER

august watched opla a bit too much and decided to redesign everyones uniform :3

He recognizes the sound of it before you even pull into the lot. That sad, wheezing rattle echoing down the street, and he’s already glancing up from under someone else’s car, a sly, pleased grin tugging at his mouth.

 “There she is!”

Mechanic!Enjin, always covered in grime and oil—black smudges dragged across his cheekbone and jaw, hair pushed back only to fall loose again from how often he runs his hands through it, may be the sexiest man alive. Old T-shirt sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, showing off tattooed arms and thick, grease-streaked biceps, veins shifting every time he tightens a bolt.

He looks downright sinful leaning over your engine bay, muscles flexing while he works, wrench in hand, jaw clenched in concentration while you try very hard not to stare.

“Keep lookin’ at me like that and I’m gonna charge you extra.”

Mechanic!Enjin never fails to give you grief about your car, “What’d you do to it this time, doll?” He says it like he’s exhausted with you and that vehicle of yours, but the way his eyes light up when you pull in tells a completely different story.

Mechanic!Enjin leans against the side of your car while you explain the problem, wiping his hands slowly on a rag, eyes dragging over your face. He pops the hood and lets out a low whistle at the state of it, “Jesus, ma’… when was the last time you checked your oil?”

“You were the one who changed it last!”

Mechanic!Enjin will start pointing things out like he’s teaching a class, tapping parts with his wrench while explaining what’s wrong—a little bit because he likes hearing himself talk, but mostly because he loves the way you look at him when he does.

He stands a little too close when he’s “showing you,” one arm braced on the car, caging you in just enough to make your brain go fuzzy. He knows you’re barely listening—you’re too busy watching his hands.

“You even listening, babe?”

“…Mhm.”

“Liar.”

Mechanic!Enjin calls you “princess,” “sweetheart,” or “trouble” every single time you show up to get a rise out of you.

Mechanic!Enjin finishes the repair, slams the hood shut, then leans against the car with that stupidly handsome smile.

“She’ll run fine now. But if you miss me that bad, you can just come by without wrecking the damn thing next time.”

“What if I like the excuse?”

“Then I’ll make sure you’ve always got one.”

Mechanic!Enjin might—might—leave one tiny thing just a little loose when he fixes your car. Nothing dangerous, he’d never let anything happen to you or that beat up ol' thing of yours.

But something small and harmless. Something that’ll have you pulling back into his lot in a week or two, that same smug look already waiting for you.

Mechanic!Enjin sometimes just wipes his hands off, shrugs, and waves you off when you reach for your wallet, “It’s on the house. Just another little fix, took me twenty minutes.”

“Enjin, no—”

“Save your money,” he turns away like it’s not up for debate. “Use it to get a new car or somethin’.”

Mechanic!Enjin (not so) secretly hopes you never get a new car.