Hoodie

Sam had looked far and wide for this particular wardrobe piece. A staple in most closets, it had been extremely hard for the 6'4" man to find. Dean had scoffed at him as he tore through Walmart, Goodwill, St Vincent De Paul, and even Sears racks. But the older hunter had still joined his brother, both of them pawing through hundreds of stacks of hoodies to find the exact one Sam had in mind.

Eventually, it was found at a yard sale for fifty cents, the price tags still dangling from the sleeve proclaiming its retail value to be over fifty dollars. Sam had grinned like the Cheshire Cat when he discovered it under several stacks of jeans (Dean bought those. Apparently the woman running the yard sale's son had moved out, leaving behind everything he didn't want anymore. He was also apparently very big.). He tugged it over his head, Dean snickering about his ecstatic expression at finding that it was long enough in the sleeves, broad enough in the shoulders, and the hem covered the entirety of his shirt. Sam had paid for it while wearing it.

Dean didn't quite get Sam's fascination with the thing (it only came out of the duffle when Sam was feeling particularly bad. Otherwise it was cared for as if it were the kid's first child). That is, until his own jacket was ripped apart and Sam dug out his hoodie.

"Dude. I am not wearing that." Dean shook his head, crossing his arms. His glower, however, was somewhat wasted, destroyed by his chattering teeth.

Sam shrugged. "Okay, then. Freeze." He made to pack it away, but Dean snatched it from him, tugging it over his head as he grumbled about snow and stupid little brothers. His protests died as he realized just how soft and warm it really was. Sam laughed at him, but consented to share it.

Dean refused to wear it as a symbol of his discomfort as Sam did. Instead, Dean wore it when he was at his most comfortable. When a hunt went completely painless, or he and Sam were engaged in a prank war, Dean wore the hoodie.

This system worked pretty well. If Sam was so far down in the dumps, Dean couldn't be entirely happy, so the hoodie was all Sam's. When Dean was ecstatic, Sam had no reason to have the warm article of clothing.

Further, it often told the brothers what to buy for groceries. If Dean was wearing it, you could buy almost anything, even sneak a few greens into the alcoholic's diet. If Sam was wearing it, Dean knew to bite his tongue and buy the stupid girly coffee that smelled of cinnamon and hazelnut.

But ninety percent of the time, the hoodie was carefully rolled up, and stowed carefully in its duffle bag. This bag took up residence in the back seat of the Impala, beside the box of phones and fake IDs, and the first aid kit.

When the flu made its rounds in late winter, Dean couldn't coax Sam out of the hoodie, even after three days of cold sweat and a touch of vomit made their appearances on the navy blue expanse. The hoodie was treated to a presoak after that long weekend.

Sam never begrudged his brother his turn to wear the thing. If it meant Dean was happy, he swallowed his protests and warily watched to make sure his fourth favorite possession wasn't abused.

Sam wore it far more often than Dean, and kept it in his own bag, surrounded by his other clothes. As a result, it smelled like him.

Dean loved this. Sam smelled clean. Dean didn't. While Sam smelled of Irish Spring soap and laundry detergent, Dean smelled of sweat and there was forever a lingering bar scent. It made no sense to either brother, as they washed all their clothes at the smae time, and used the same soap, often taking showers on the same day. It didn't matter. But the smell of the hoodie was definitely all Sam's scent.

The night before Detroit, Sam tugged it on, then curled up next to his brother on the couch, somehow fitting his entire frame in next to Dean without pressing up aganst him. Dean had tugged him over, hugging him. The next morning, the hoodie was folded back up, and back in the duffle. Sam was ready.

Dean wasn't. And then Sam was gone. And Dean was all alone.

~S~

It wasn't until three months later that Dean opened the back car door, and found the duffle. Grief pulled at him, making him open the bag, and draw out the hoodie. It was stupid, really, he thought, staring at the folded up lump in his hands. It was just cloth. But it still smelled like Sam.

Slowly, Dean unfolded it. A slip of paper fluttered to the ground, and Dean bent to pick it up. Sam's hasty scrawl spelled out two words: I'm sorry.

And Dean clutched the stupid, stupid hoodie to his chest, the one thing that had always made Sam feel better, and sobbed.