Well-worn
By Swellison
"No! Gimme!" Sam's fever-bright eyes glared at Dean as he latched onto the grimy t-shirt Dean held.
"You've worn this three days running. I'm just gonna wash it," Dean said, easing Sam's freshly-showered but wobbly frame onto his bed.
Sam had taken point this last hunt. Dean, still unadmittedly recovering from the wendigo's attack, seconds late with backup. Consequently, Sam had acquired a case of black dog-scratch fever.
Dean tugged gently. Sam's grasp of the violet t-shirt tightened, clenched hand obscuring the greyhound imprinted front. "Was Jess's fav'rite."
Oh.
Dean left, then returned, black Metallica t-shirt in hand. "Wanna trade?"